


The Dragon Prince and the Winter Swan

by sophiahelix



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - A Song of Ice and Fire Fusion, Alternate Universe - Game of Thrones Fusion, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Canonical Character Death, M/M, Minor Character Death, No Major Character Death, Slow Burn, Swordfighting, Tourney at Harrenhal, Victor is Rhaegar
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-30
Updated: 2018-03-17
Packaged: 2018-12-21 19:28:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 121,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11951052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sophiahelix/pseuds/sophiahelix
Summary: Yuuri Stark is a noble son of the north, returning to Winterfell in disgrace after the latest disappointment in his checkered tourney career. He hasn't given up his dream of becoming a knight, but maybe it's time to find himself a new path, settling down at home.Prince Victor Targaryen is the greatest swordsman in Westeros, but he no longer finds joy in competition. Things are uneasy in King's Landing, where politics are shifting and dangerous, and he seizes the chance to escape north in search of the young man who came so close to beating him in a tourney last year — and was so beguiling at the banquet afterwards.Together they begin a journey to the great tourney of Harrenhal, with intrigue, honor, friendship and love along the way...and inevitable political conflict ahead.(A Game of Thrones fusion with 90% less grimdark)





	1. One - Yuuri

**Author's Note:**

> Me: haha has anyone crossed over YOI and Game of Thrones, since young Victor with the long silver hair is totally Rhaegar Targaryen?
> 
> Also me: ...oh no
> 
>  
> 
> IMPORTANT NOTES
> 
> I’m not GRRM, and there is no major character death.
> 
> This is more of a fusion with the book series rather than the show — it melds the YOI storyline and characters with the ASOIAF setting and pre-GoT events (the Harrenhal tourney, Rhaegar and Lyanna’s romance, Robert’s rebellion, etc.) That said, this story ultimately stands alone, veering into original plot, and you shouldn't need to know either GoT or ASOIAF to follow along. It might be helpful to look at this map of Westeros, but I explaining politics and history as I go.
> 
> https://zalringda.deviantart.com/art/Map-of-Westeros-Game-of-Thrones-686791245
> 
> Things I play fast and loose with in this story include:
> 
> \- Tourney event structure. I’ve made jousting a minor component and the main event sword fighting, because it's more like figure skating and also just more fun.
> 
> \- Westeros social structure. Begone, patriarchy and homophobia. (Also the explicit rape, death, and extreme violence of the series.)
> 
> \- The sequence of events and scenes in YOI 
> 
>  
> 
> Thanks to someitems for being my non-GoT beta, lodessa for talking through important parts of the plot, and various friends for listening to me babble excitedly about this for weeks, as I matched characters up and dithered about Houses. I'm writing this for fun, and I hope it's fun to read!

Yuuri had forgotten the sharp, aching cold of the north, after his years of fostering in Dorne. The morning frost at every window, the bite of the chilly air, the way it pierces through three layers of furs and blankets. It's a hard cold, for a hard place, and Yuuri, shivering as he wakes up, wonders if his family will think he's gone soft.

The journey up the King’s Road has seemed to take forever, but now with Winterfell on the horizon, it feels all too brief. Yuuri knows what his family expected of him: to return from Dorne strong and skilled, with tourney successes under his belt, new diplomatic alliances forged, and possibly a betrothal to the scion of one of the southern houses. Instead he’s made a series of mediocre showings at tourneys where he spent the entire time too nervous to speak to anyone at the celebratory banquets except Prince Phichit, his foster brother, and failed even to make a knighthood. After his last disastrous tourney, in which he'd humiliated himself in front of most of the Reach by getting knocked off his horse in the joust and falling into a puddle, he had a brief, depressing meeting with the Dornish master at arms, bid Phichit and his family farewell, and packed his trunks for his first return home in five years.

The interview with Ser Celestino still makes Yuuri’s face flush to remember it, breaking his fast now in the tavern common room with kippers and bread. The way he shrugged at Yuuri, smiling wryly, like he knew all along Yuuri didn't have what it took to be a knight. Like he'd always thought Yuuri would do exactly what he’s doing now, slinking back home with no victories and no honor won for his family.

Yuuri sighs and finishes his food, looking for his servant. The man is off enjoying himself as usual; Yuuri’s never even had a squire of his own, let alone been able to command servants. He hopes their things are packed for the final leg of the trip, at least. Much as he dreads it, he'd rather not put off his arrival home for another day.

By noon they're on the road again. They've gotten through the black bogs of the Neck now, onto the windy plains and craggy foothills that lead to Winterfell, and the terrain is strange and wild. Yuuri’s only traveled through here once, on his way to Dorne years ago, and then he was heartsick and homesick as he rode through these lands, already aching for his family and the familiar stones of the keep. He hadn't known what to expect, only that he was leaving everything he'd ever known, and the very earth and trees seemed to remind him of his misery, dropping silent, surreptitious tears as he rode.

It wasn't terrible, living in Dorne. The heat took some adjustment, as well as all the different customs — the food, the near-nudity of both the women and men, the endless hours of banquets and leisure. At home in the north, Yuuri’s life had mostly been devoted to training and schooling, even though the land would be his sister’s to rule one day. He was the son of a lady, and his mother never failed to remind him, however gently, of his duty.

In Dorne being a lady’s son meant something quite different. Music and dance, poetry and wine, evenings spent by splashing fountains enjoying the cool breezes beneath the gently waving trees. Phichit was always laughing, spilling comic poetry or wooing some girl, and his parents laughed too, and urged him on. He'd been more successful on the fields of romance than on the tourney grounds, but Ser Celestino had always been encouraging and hopeful. Phichit would rule Dorne in his own right someday, and for him to win a tilt or bout or two was enough to satisfy his people.

Yuuri was more successful on the proving grounds, less so in love. He's had a few dalliances, a summer of secret notes and kisses beneath the olive trees, and tumbled in bed as well as off his horse, but none of those men truly touched his heart. No one ever could, when Yuuri is forever thinking of the silver dragon prince.

Once a year, perhaps twice, he sees Prince Victor at a tourney. He's faced him four times, usually in jousts, where he's been unceremoniously unseated so quickly he could hardly have been said to face him at all. The last time was in a bout, though, at the great Highgarden tourney held to mark the end of winter and the spring planting, and Yuuri can still remember the quickness of the prince’s steel, raining down cuts and blows Yuuri scarcely had the speed to defend against. 

Round and round the arena they went, blunted swords clanging and singing in the morning air, dust rising beneath their boots as they fought. Yuuri sensed nothing but the battle, trying to block out the shouts of the crowd and the heat of the sun. It shone off Prince Victor’s beautiful silver-chased helm too, shaped like the head of the dragon that was his royal house’s sigil. Yuuri had held off the prince’s attack with only the strength of his arm, but when he'd finally seen an opening for his own attack Prince Victor was there too, disarming him with a sudden strike and twist that numbed his hand and sent his broadsword tumbling into the dirt.

Yuuri gasped in pain and looked up to see intelligent blue eyes, studying him through the slits of the dragon helm. He was breathless and aching, his own plain helm sitting crooked on his head, but there was a surprising openness in the prince’s eyes, vulnerable and appraising. Yuuri stared back, still panting and stunned, and finally remembered his manners. He dropped to one knee in the arena, bowing his head before reaching for his sword. His numb fingers wouldn't close over it, but he picked it up left-handed to offer to the prince.

“I yield, my liege,” Yuuri said.

Prince Victor looked at him for a moment more, then turned away. He pulled off his helm and tipped his head back, tossing his long silver hair out of his face, over his shoulders. “Send in the next challenger,” he called to the roaring crowd.

Yuuri has idolized the prince since he was young and watching his very first tourney, but that was the closest he's ever been to him. And, he expects, it's the closest he’ll ever be. Now he's traveling home in disgrace, before a wagon filled with tourney gear he might never use again, towards an uncertain future. It wouldn't be surprising at all if his lady mother decided the expense of outfitting him for tourneys was no longer worth the poor results, or that it was time he settled in and learned governance and management instead, in advance of the day when he’ll hold lands and a keep for his sister. Perhaps the path of a knight was never meant for him.

He rides over the top of a rise, and Winterfell comes into sight at last. Grey as rain, with towers of varying ages and heights connected by bridges and secret tunnels, encircled by the heavy wall envisioned by Brandon the Builder. Centuries-old seat of the Starks, from long before the Targaryens landed their dragons in Westeros or even the Andals staked their claim here, dating back to the stoic First Men who took the land from the Children of the Forest. Grim and solid and implacable, mysterious and strong, with the life-giving waters of the springs it was built on running hot and secret in its walls.

Home.

Yuuri pauses for a moment, looking over his shoulder. His servant is whipping the horses on as best as he can, toiling up the final slope. Behind him lie all the rolling lands of the great country of Westeros, from the fetid swamps of the Neck through the green, fertile countryside of the Reach, down to the hot plains of Dorne and the deep blue sea beyond. All the wide world Yuuri has tasted, only to find himself an outsider, an exile from a cold place.

He turns his back on Westeros, and urges his horse forward.

*****

Maestra Minako is the first person he sees when he rides through the gates of Winterfell. She’s hardly aged at all, dark hair still smooth and glossy above her black robes. She's waiting near the base of the guard tower as if she knew Yuuri would arrive today, and she probably did. She’s always known Yuuri better than anyone else.

Yuuri dismounts and lets her embrace him. Over her shoulder he sees the castle yard, crowded with soldiers, smiths, servants, and all the smallfolk of the keep. Some he recognizes and some are new; everyone is watching him, wary and interested. 

Maestra Minako steps back, still holding him by the shoulders. “Well, let's look at you. You're not the skinny little thing you were when you rode out of here five years ago, still weeping for your mother.”

Yuuri stiffens. “I wasn't weeping,” he says, though he was.

Maestra Minako’s face creases into a smile. “If you say so. Come on, everyone in the castle wants to greet you!”

She tugs at his arm, but Yuuri resists. “Er, I'm — rather tired from the journey,” he says. “If we could just go to my mother’s solar?”

Now her eyes sharpen as she studies him, but she shrugs and drops his arm. “Certainly. But Lady Hiroko is more likely to be in the kitchens this time of day.”

Walking the corridors of Winterfell again is like a dream. The rough stone walls, and the surprising heat of them, emanating from the spring water running inside. The ancient Starks had secrets of building and architecture far beyond today’s knowledge. They pass through the great hall, hung with furs and tapestries and hunting trophies, and the long table atop the dais where Yuuri’s family eats with any visitors of note, and then back into the spacious, noisy, steamy kitchens, where an army of servants is preparing the castle’s supper.

His mother is in the middle of it as ever. Tasting this, stirring that, giving orders, smiling as broadly as Yuuri remembers. She's always been the heart of Winterfell, keeping things running smooth and prosperous, managing the accounts and affairs of the castle as well as the larger tasks of governing the region. He can recall sitting at her feet as she heard testimony against accused criminals or mediated disputes between bannermen, with the same easy charm as she gave orders for supplies or the household guard. His father handles more of the daily concerns of the household, but Lady Hiroko has always loved to be where she is right now, in the center of things.

Now, she drops the spoon she was using to test a sauce and runs over to Yuuri, throwing her hands in the air. “Yuuri! Here at last! Welcome home, my son.” She flings her arms around him in a quick embrace, and then pulls back to look at him. “So tall! You take after your father.” She squints, then smiles slyly, poking him in the belly through his layers of clothing. “And your mother, too,” she adds, winking. 

“It's good to see you, Mother,” Yuuri says, sounding more formal than he’d like. His tongue feels slow and his body strange, back here in familiar surroundings but so different himself. He was only fifteen when he left home, older than most young noblemen at fostering but young enough to still feel the sharp pain of separation. He's grown in so many ways since then, and known more pain than just homesickness.

“I've ordered all your favorite dishes!” his mother goes on. “Maestra Minako was sure you'd arrive today. I think a little bird told her,” she says, winking again.

Maestra Minako rolls her eyes. “Of course the inn sent a raven, as I asked,” she says. “We needed time to prepare the banquet.”

“ _I_ needed time,” his mother says. “ _You_ have a stack of lessons and a set of exercise plans for my son. I only want to give him pork roast.”

Yuuri’s mouth waters involuntarily at the words. Dornish food was delicious, but very different to northern fare. “Exercise plans?” he says, though.

Maestra Minako claps him on the shoulder, hard. “After your last tourney, I thought maybe you'd like to try a new approach. Ser Takeshi and I ordered some books from Braavos, a new swordfighting philosophy — ”

“Thank you,” Yuuri cuts in. “Maybe — later? I told you, I'm tired….”

“My son hasn't even unpacked,” his mother says, scoffing. “Let him settle in, and then we can talk about tourneys and Braavosi swordfighting.”

Yuuri escapes gratefully from the steamy kitchen, leaving them to argue and finding the stairs to his old bedroom. His feet remember the way of their own accord, and his ears still know the peculiar creak of his door. Inside, he takes a moment to inhale deeply, then lets out his breath as he moves towards the window.

It looks out on the godswood, misty and tangled below, in the gloom of early evening. Yuuri reaches up to touch the mullioned glass, chilly and rippled between the lines of lead, and then rests his forehead against it, sighing again. Home is every bit as confusing as he feared, familiar and pleasant and yet reminding him of the failures that brought him here. 

He remembers the hours of training in the yard below. First with the old master at arms, alongside his son Takeshi and the armorer’s daughter Yuuko, and then later with Maestra Minako overseeing them, reading out of her books on the old ways of fighting, teaching them katana. It was exciting and new when he was young, learning to swing the blade and ride a horse, his only opponent himself and his own limitations. Takeshi beat him at first, by dint of height and weight, but Yuuri soon outstripped him as his skills and his body grew. Everyone knew Takeshi was destined to succeed his father as castellan of the keep, while Yuuri’s fate was larger, brighter, as great as he chose.

“You could be a knight of the Kingsguard,” Maestra Minako had told him. Yuuri imagined it; wearing a white cloak and armor and devoting his life to protecting his king. “Or a tourney champion, growing rich on winners’ purses, although your family wouldn't be quite as rich in honor.”

Yuuri dreamed of many things. Riding the countryside defending the weak and downtrodden with his sword. Taking ship for the eastern realm and learning every philosophy of the sword there was. He leaned more towards the idea of taking the white, sacrificing a family and life of his own to protect King Aerys as one of the most noble knights of the land, and then he saw his first tourney.

King Aerys had recently appointed a new Hand to oversee the land, and the tourney was held in her honor. Yuuri was twelve, old enough to be taken to Harrenhal, to the great proving grounds where so many championships had been won. He'd hardly slept a single night the whole journey there, and when they arrived it was even more magnificent than he'd dreamed. 

A great sea of colorful tents, housing the knights and sellswords who'd traveled to the tourney, anxious to test their steel and vie for the purse of twenty thousand golden dragons the king had announced. Lords and ladies from every corner of the kingdom, and Harrenhal itself, the biggest castle Yuuri had ever seen or imagined, almost comical in its gigantic proportions. The Stark family had shared quarters far larger than theirs at home, and Yuuri and Yuuko had gasped at each new marvel they saw; the variety of noble people and their retinues, the strange family sigils, the styles of fighting outside on the training grounds. 

And then the tourney began, and Yuuri could think of nothing but the prince.

He'd heard tell of the Targaryen beauty. Long silver hair, blue or violet eyes, faces chiseled from marble. King Aerys’s profile adorned coins and it was spoken of as handsome, though Yuuri had his doubts. Aerys’s son surpassed him in every way. Tall and perfectly-formed, even at sixteen, with his far-seeing blue eyes and his long hair, caught back with a black tie beneath his silver dragon helm, Prince Victor was more than Yuuri could have ever imagined.

He was a marvel on the field as well. He soared through the minor event of jousting easily, seated atop his white stallion as though he'd been born there, but it was in the broadsword bout that he truly shone. Yuuri stared, captivated, as Prince Victor whirled his heavy sword as though it weighed nothing, striking sure and true while his opponent scrambled to defend himself. It was over in a matter of minutes, the hedge knight kneeling before the prince with his sword knocked in the dirt, and Yuuri never forgot the proud, insouciant way Prince Victor turned away, hardly acknowledging the man’s surrender to his obvious superiority.

Yuuri turned to Yuuko, who was as awed and wide-eyed as he was. “Someday,” he said, hardly knowing he was doing it, “I'm going to be just as good as the prince, and meet him on the tourney field.”

Yuuko squeezed his arm with excitement, so hard it almost hurt. “I know you will.”

And now Yuuri's dreams have come to this: back home at Winterfell, his foray into the wider world of Westeros a failure, looking forward to little but roast pork for supper tonight. The years stretch out behind him, all the wasted toil, and ahead of him too, closing the door on his dreams and turning to the more serious tasks of maturity. The idea of taking the white cloak of the Kingsguard is laughable now, when he’s scarcely known in the realm, and then only for his lack of success. It's better that he withdraw those silly fantasies now, before the youngest child of Lady Hiroko Stark becomes known as the joke of the kingdom, the failed knight who didn't know when he was beaten.

Yuuri clenches his fist. The truth is, he doesn't _feel_ beaten. He's spent a thousand hours in training, and he knows his own worth. At the training yard at Sunspear, he triumphed over Prince Phichit more often than not, and in simple drilling his skills are impeccable. It's only on the tourney ground that it all seems to vanish, leaving him frozen and stumbling to keep up, his brain too sluggish to plan or react once the fight begins. 

There's a knock on the door behind him, and Yuuri turns to see his sister entering, wearing a rich red gown that's still somehow practical and spare. Mari was always blunt and down to earth, and Yuuri and his mother often exchanged thanks with the old gods that she was the one fated to become the ruler of Winterfell and not he.

“Welcome home,” Mari says dryly, leaning against the doorway. She’s never studied swordfighting, but her posture is still calm and steady, sure of herself. “Will you be staying long?”

“I don't know,” Yuuri says, surprised by her directness, although he shouldn't be. Mari never minced words. “I've only just set my things down.”

“Well if you are,” Mari says, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear, “Old Lord Karstark is growing too old to hold his lands. I can send Alain and some of the household guard, but I think Mother would rather have someone we trust more.”

“Oh,” Yuuri says. A shivering chill runs through him at the thought of journeying even farther north, taking over a keep and a fiefdom himself for the first time, stepping into the role his family has always planned for him. Learning to rule, to fight outside the tourney ring. “Can we discuss it later?”

“Of course,” Mari says. She hoists herself up from the doorway. “I'll see you at supper? I'm sure you'll want to visit the godswood. And the tombs.”

Yuuri shivers again, remembering. “Yes,” he says, and turns back to the window.

Lady Hiroko Stark is kinder than her forebears. The stern, grim people who built this castle and held these lands were hard people with no time for frivolities, and little sentiment even for each other. They certainly wouldn't have spared much more than a moment’s thought for a hunting hound, even one who shared blood with a direwolf, the sigil of their house.

And so Vicchan is the first dog to ever be placed in the Stark catacombs. It was a great honor, Yuuri knows, but ever since his father wrote him about it he's felt strange, uncomfortable. He never liked going down to the dark, cold, still tunnels where his ancestors kept watch, and the idea of Vicchan alone in the darkness made him weep almost as much as his passing.

When he finds the tomb, though, it isn't so bad. Someone has put fresh flowers on top, perhaps in advance of Yuuri’s arrival, and his mother even had the castle stonemason chisel a rough statue, in keeping with the other tombs. He didn't capture Vicchan’s grace or sweetness, but the curving, plumed tail and long, delicate face are there, along with two eternally perked ears, as if the dog was listening for Yuuri’s call.

Yuuri weeps again, just a little, standing there. His mother had thought the long trip to Dorne would be too much, and so Yuuri hunted with Phichit’s dogs, always with the stab of guilt. Vicchan had been his closest companion since he returned from the tourney at Harrenhal, head full of dreams of knighthood and the more reasonable wish for a hunting dog just like the prince’s, swift and sleek. 

He remembers Yuuko’s delight when he brought the pup to show her, soft and brown and wriggling in his arms. They'd trained him together, riding their horses in the brushy lowlands around the castle or ranging into the forested foothills. Good days, full of hope and sunshine, and his dreams for the times to come.

Yuuri rests his forehead at the foot of Vicchan’s statue and then straightens up, wiping his eyes. A knight shouldn't weep at the grave of a dog, even a beloved hunting hound. He goes to find Yuuko.

She's where he expected to find her, in the training yard, working with the breastplate stretcher over someone’s gear. Yuuri watches her for just a moment, her strong round arms and the charm of her pale profile, and then she catches sight of him and turns to greet him with a smile, tossing a strand of hair out of her eyes.

“Yuuri!” she says. “I didn't know you were back already.”

He smiles. “I've come to train in the yard,”

“Of course,” Yuuko says, and then frowns, thinking. “Most of the men are out on patrol. You could spar with the dummy…or Takeshi, but he's really getting too fat.” She grins.

Yuuri shakes his head, grinning back. “I'll just go through the shadow dance on my own — I just want to stretch my legs after the ride. Where are the girls?” 

“Oh, somewhere around here,” she says, distractedly, and leans in to finish her work. “Fighting with the other children or climbing to the roof tops, I don't know.”

“Like I did,” Yuuri says.

“Yes, exactly!” Yuuko exclaims. She gives one last tug to the stretcher and then steps away. “There, that's finished. I tell them, the castle walls are dangerous, but they remind me _you_ never fell, and so…” She raises her hands, gesturing with frustration.

“I have gifts for them,” Yuuri says, remembering. “Tell them to come find me after supper.”

“I will,” Yuuko says. Her glance meets his, and there's a long moment where she looks him over, kind but all-seeing. She's always known him as well as Maestra Minako, in her way. “Yuuri,” she says, her voice softer now. “All your letters — I know it was difficult, but you were happy, right? In Dorne?”

“Prince Phichit is the brother of my heart now,” Yuuri says, truthfully. “And Dorne is magnificent, and so different from here. I wish I could take you there someday.”

Yuuko smiles, and shakes her head. “A long journey for a castellan’s wife. But — I know you never won the glory you wanted, but did you love the tourneys? The food, and the splendor?”

He thinks of the tourneys he went to, tents pitched on muddy fields and meals of burnt meat or food left standing while the tilt went on, surrounded by crowds of gambling smallfolk and camp followers. Nothing like the splendor they'd seen at Harrenhal, or his vision of knighthood.

“I've seen so much,” he says. “I'm glad I went out into the world, but now my place is here.”

Yuuko narrows her eyes. “I thought you wanted to serve in the Kingsguard.”

Yuuri winces at the reminder of his childhood fancy, but he makes his voice light. “Maybe I will someday, when Prince Victor is king.”

He regrets saying it, the way understanding flashes over Yuuko’s face, but she says nothing, only smiles again, turning back to the pile of armor behind her. “Well, I'll see you at supper, Yuuri.”

It's good to train, exhausting himself with the exercises he's gone through every day since he was a boy. Overhand, cut, jab, slice, swinging the heavy steel through the air as he shifts his feet along the ground. Yuuri always feels better with a sword in his hand, like it's an extension of himself, muscles moving in familiar ways. It's just in the heat of combat that he seems to freeze, too many thoughts rushing in at once. _Let yourself react_ , Ser Celestino would tell him, again and again, but Yuuri never seemed to learn the trick of it.

Finally he drops his sword, leaning panting on the wall to catch his breath. He's gotten out of shape these last weeks, journeying north from Dorne, and he wouldn't want Ser Celestino or anyone else to see him like this. 

He picks up the sword one more time, though, and takes a deep, steadying breath before launching into a series of moves — thrusts, parries, side steps, all lightning-quick and precise. It's the same series he's watched Prince Victor use to finish an opponent a dozen times, and though others must be familiar with it too, no one can defend against it. Yuuri tried himself, in that bout several months ago at Highgarden, and though he spotted the one flaw in the web of defensive motions he still wasn't quick enough to break through. Instead of being the first one to defeat the prince in years, he was just another in the long line of vanquished foes.

Yuuri finishes the sequence and then cleans and sheathes his sword. He's soaked in sweat now, and he decides to do exactly what he always did after a hard practice.

The steaming pool in the godswood is older than Winterfell itself. The first Starks built here because of the underground hot springs, which had been induced to flow through the castle walls to warm it from inside, and the shallow, beautiful pool near the heart tree is truly the heart of the keep. The Children of the Forest carved a face in the tree long before the First Men arrived, and they probably bathed in this pool just as Yuuri is now, easing into the heat until it envelops him.

His thoughts disperse in the water, as they always did when he was a boy. The hot steam and mineral scent are all he can think about, as the ache in his muscles eases. Tall, dark sentinel trees ring the pool, shading him from the setting sun, and further off in the woods the trees are gnarled and twisted, holding the misty gloom. It's nothing like the bright, sunny lands of Dorne, the gleaming white buildings and splashing fountains, with blue hints of the sea behind graceful olive groves, but Yuuri feels safe here, content somehow. The chill of the north is in his blood, and these heavy, forbidding forests are his bones.

Yuuri is a Stark, and after all his years away he's beginning to remember how that felt. To turn away from the laughing warmth of the south, his dreams of glory and victory. To seek out honor in duty and virtue, cold and stony as the northern lands. He isn't ready to fully accept his fate yet, but it's waiting for him, as hard and as certain as winter itself.

*****

He eases back into life at Winterfell as the next few days pass. Breakfast in the great hall, with the hounds beneath the table and the men talking of the coming day’s work. The endless bustle in the yard of gear and horses, and the clamor inside, too, as his mother hears petitioners and bannermen and his father and sister see to the work of the castle. In Dorne things moved at a slower pace, but here it seems there's always something demanding the Stark consideration, managing the great lands of the north.

Yuuri helps as best as he can, but he was always more absorbed in training as a boy and it's hard to find his place here now. He takes his horse for long rides, bundled against the chilly air, and helps Maestra Minako with the ravens in the tower and reorganizing her books. She's changed, drawn into herself more, and it seems she drains more flagons of ale than she used to. There are only a few children in the castle now to attend her lessons, since he and Mari have grown, and he thinks she feels awkward here, out of place the same way he does. 

He mostly trains by himself in the yard. Ser Takeshi is too busy with the small army of guardsmen he has to keep outfitted and in line, and anyway Yuko was right, he isn't in sparring shape anymore. Yuuko watches him when she can, along with her girls, who take it in turns to imitate him with the small wooden swords and soft quilted armor their mother made for them. Sometimes Yuuri spars with them too, careful with the power of his sword but never going easy on them.

“If only you'd had a real knight in the castle!” Yuuko says to him one day, as they drink hot spiced wine in the yard between bouts. The girls lie in a pile of hay, eating sweet buns and putting straw in each other’s hair. “Takeshi’s father tried, but you were better than him even as a boy.”

Yuuri shrugs, sipping his wine. “I had Maestra Minako’s books. And a real training master in Dorne, even if I went for fostering later than I should have.”

“Still,” Yuuko says, frowning. “All we had when we were young were the memories of Prince Victor at that tourney!”

“Mm,” Yuuri says. He clears his throat. “I wanted to show you, I think I perfected that finishing pass of his. I may never get to use it again, but…”

“Really?” Yuuko says, wide-eyed. He hasn't let her see this before, never feeling it was right, especially now he's so out of shape. She's been the only person who hasn't changed since his return, though, greeting him just as affectionately as before he went away, without expecting anything of him. He wants to give her something back, a reminder of their old friendship.

Yuuri puts down his wine goblet and reaches for his sword. He stretches his fingers and then grips it, swinging it around so it glints in the morning light. The blunted edges of his practice sword aren't nearly as beautiful as the Valyrian steel of his grandfather’s sword, Ice, still waiting for him in the castle armory for the day it should be needed, but it's a fine sword and he loves the weight of it in his hands.

He takes a breath, glancing at Yuuko and the girls, and then begins.

Good swordfighting is over in a flash, he knows. Even to knowledgeable observers like these, the motions of a successful pass are too fast to be seen for more than an instant. When Prince Victor used these moves on him in Highgarden, he scarcely knew what was happening before his sword was in the dirt. 

So he doesn't go slow, but he does repeat the pass; over and over, the way he did at Sunspear in the weeks before he decided to return home. Swinging the sword until his wrists ached and his muscles burned, turning and twisting, sliding his feet one way and his upper body the other, whipping his head around to keep his eye on an invisible opponent. He ends it the same way each time, with the crushing overhand strike to disarm, and then tosses his head back exactly like Prince Victor, grinning in triumph.

He finishes a sixth or seventh pass and stays where he is, head flung back, body heaving with each panting breath. There's silence, and he worries for a moment that he's been ridiculous, strutting around as if he were the prince of the realm instead of a second child of the north. But there's the sound of clapping, and he looks up to see Yuuko’s face shining with joy.

“I was so worried about you, Yuuri,” she says. “You’ve seemed so withdrawn, not yourself. But I know you still have the fire in you, and you _will_ be a true knight one day.”

Yuuri smiles back at her, feeling his flushed face glowing even more. “I'll have to be knighted first,” he says.

“Maybe Prince Victor will do it!” Karuta squeals, sitting up in the hay. “If you defeat him at the next tourney.” 

Yuuri laughs. “I doubt I’ll ever be face to face with Prince Victor again,” he says. “But maybe some other knight will, if I prove myself.”

“I still can't believe Ser Celestino never did,” Yuuko huffs. “Five years you trained under him!”

Yuuri shrugs, reaching for a rag to clean his sword. “He said I never advanced far enough in a tourney to earn the right. It's the custom, it was nothing personal.”

“Well, someday soon you will,” Yuuko says, as Yuuri sheathes his sword. “Anyway, I've got a pile of rusting chainmail to attend to, and you girls will have to help today. Play time is through.”

The girls let out a chorus of protests, burrowing deeper into the hay, as Yuuri leaves the training yard. He carries a bundle of fresh clothing and heads toward the godswood as always, intending to bathe away the sweat and dirt in the pool there. He's surprised, though, to see the gate already open, and, standing guard, a figure so familiar he has to stop.

Snow has been falling all morning, despite the fact that they're almost a year into spring. In the north the snow comes in any season, though, and it's not unusual, just inconvenient. Yuuri was up early with the rest of the castle, clearing it away from the yards with shovels and brooms, fingers stiff in the cold.

No one cleared it from the godswood, though, and drifts still lie before the entrance, where the greyhound sits waiting. The cocked ears are familiar, but the brown eyes are different — Vicchan’s were always loving and simple, but this dog has a glint of humor and intelligence in his eyes. It's somehow familiar too, and Yuuri’s heart seems to lodge in his throat.

“It can't be,” he mutters to himself.

There's a clattering sound behind him, and one of the men from the stables appears, leading a huge white steed.

“That's some hound,” he says to Yuuri in passing. “Good breeding.”

“Whose dog is it?” Yuuri asks, sounding hollow to his own ears.

The man shrugs. “Some noble guest of your lady mother’s. Asked me to stable this beauty while he refreshed himself in the hot spring.”

Yuuri’s already turning away as the man finishes speaking, sprinting into the godswood. It's silent and dark under the trees, the air muffled by the snow that crunches underfoot, and he runs towards the heart tree. His breath is loud in his own ears, and his only focus is on what's before him.

There's someone in the pool, someone with long silver hair tied back and the beautiful broad shoulders of an athlete or a swordsman. Yuuri’s only seen that profile from afar, and once on the tourney ground, turned away and exulting over his defeat. He dashes the last few feet and then stops, panting hard, disbelieving.

Prince Victor Targaryen, heir to the throne of Westeros, extends a hand to Yuuri before he rises. 

“Ah, my student arrives at last!” he says.

“Student?” Yuuri asks, breathless.

Prince Victor gives him an appraising look, up and down, and then smiles. “I'm your new training master. How would you like to win the next tourney at Harrenhal?”


	2. Two - Victor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone following along! I'm still ahead by a few chapters, so definitely able to stick to the every other week posting schedule.

Prince Victor Targaryen was born of tragedy and fire and he never forgot it, nor was he permitted to.

As a child, he read all he could find about that night at Summerhall, the once-beautiful pleasure palace in the far reaches of Dorne. When he grew older he journeyed there from time to time, sleeping in the ruins and thinking of the terrible night when his great-grandfather left this world and he entered it, amid the cries of the dying and the wounded as the palace burned. His father frowned on these trips, but Victor had already learned that his father lacked his leaning towards sentimental things. King Aerys II cared only for tales that carried his own name.

Victor wrote songs, there in the scorched ruins of the palace where he was born, and any other quiet place he could find. His fingers were always seeking his harp, mind wandering through the halls of history or the natural world for inspiration, until the day he came across a series of journals written by the Targaryens of old, his ancestors. Reading of their exploits, his heritage, he felt drawn at last to the sword and the way of the knight, the beauty and the power of combat. 

Within a few years he was winning bouts and tourneys, renowned throughout Westeros for his skill. At first he loved the challenge of it, pitting himself against older and more experienced men, finding their weaknesses and displaying his own strength. He loved defeating them, but more than that he loved the dance, the unexpected attacks and lightning defense, his body doing what he was made to do. He was heir to the Iron Throne, and heir to the sword as well.

Things changed slowly, imperceptibly. Tourneys no longer seemed full of splendor and bravery, but muddy and slapdash, full of sellswords and gambling smallfolk in search of easy coin. He ran out of books to study, or at least the interest in finding new ones. Swordplay seemed dull, routine, as did defeating men with no hope against him. On the tourney field he kept up the mask for the sake of the kingdom, acting the part of their noble warrior prince, but privately he felt he had reached the heights of competitive glory.

He turned to his harp more often, and the hunt. He roved long hours in the countryside with his hound and his horse, some part of him envying the simple life of the farmers there. He returned to a court grown tense with his father’s increasing paranoia, made worse than ever by a series of attempted revolts by smaller nobles. As he neared his twenty-fifth year it seemed that nothing in life was the same, or would satisfy him again.

Then he faced the son of Lady Stark on the tourney field at Highgarden.

Looking through the records later, he found that they had faced each other in the lists four times before, always in the joust. He remembered none of their tilts, but now he couldn't forget their sword bout. 

He’d won, of course, but Yuuri Stark had given him the first challenge he'd faced in ages. A quick, weaving defense, like he'd studied the complex flurry of attacks Victor had come to rely on, and he'd almost held out longer than Victor could match. Victor had actually been close to stepping away to catch his breath when young Stark found a hole — _a hole_! — in Victor’s attack, and pressed his own advantage.

Victor had disarmed him with a quick envelopment, but only just. In the panting, stunned moments after, while Stark grappled for his lost sword, Victor stared down at him, trying to discern something about the boy through his helm. Stark had merely yielded, though, offering up his sword in surrender, and disappointment flared through Victor as he turned away. He was like the others, after all…at least until the banquet on the final night of the tourney.

In the months since, Victor hadn’t stopped thinking about him. First a search through tourney records, some requested by raven, to better know his fighting career. He found not much there, just a string of defeats and the occasional early-round victory. At that tournament in Highgarden he'd achieved his greatest success to date, which accounted for his meeting Victor in the late rounds. The foes he'd defeated were not insignificant — some sellswords of note, Victor’s cousin Ser Georgi Targaryen and Seung-Gil Greyjoy of the Iron Islands — and it was only his misfortune to have drawn against Victor before the final match. With Yuuri’s remarkable stamina, had they met then Victor wouldn't have sworn to his own assured success.

Since then, though, young Stark seemed to have vanished from Westeros. Dedicated inquiry revealed at last that he'd left his fostering in Dorne, and returned to his home in Winterfell. Victor had never been further north of King’s Landing than the Neck, but as the months passed and the strained atmosphere of the court became unbearable, his thoughts turned to snowy mountains and far-off lands. 

He packed his things one evening, hardly even knowing what he was doing. He couldn't be here, and he wanted to be there, and that was enough. He gave orders for the rest of his suite to be sent by wagon train after him, and went downstairs with a light bag and a lighter heart.

Ser Yakov was waiting for him at the city gate.

“You can't leave now,” he said as Victor rode up, breath cloudy in the frosty early spring air. “The banner lords and ladies are anxious, after the last rebellion attempt. There is unrest in the city. Your father is — unstable.”

Victor winced. “My father has the small council to guide him, and the King’s Hand to keep the city under control.”

Ser Yakov gave a hard shake of his head, spitting on the ground. “There is no love between your father and Lady Regula, you know that. Your father doesn't trust her, and I myself have no idea what that Lannister has planned. She’s a damned cyvasse player, always three steps ahead.”

“I trust you,” Victor said. “And the city has weathered my father for the dozen years of his reign. I have pressing business of my own at Winterfell.”

He rode his horse past Ser Yakov, iron-shod hooves ringing on the cobbles. His old training master spoke again from behind him, his voice low and clear. “You're the heir to the throne, Victor. Your business is here. If you turn your back on your kingdom now, you can never return.”

Victor pulled up on the reins, stilling his white stallion, and turned his head to look over my shoulder. “It's not my kingdom yet.”

Ser Yakov only stared back at him, his fierce, ugly face set in a hard kind of sorrow.

“Farewell, Yakov,” Victor said, and rode out of the gates and onto the kingsroad.

*****

The hot springs of Winterfell must be the best-kept secret of Westeros, Victor thinks, reclining. The heat soaks into his very bones, refreshing the soreness of yesterday’s ride. He closes his eyes and breathes in the mineral-scented steam, trying to make sense of yesterday’s events as well. 

He’d expected — well, more of a welcome than the shy, skittish one that young Stark has shown him so far. Even if he’d been drinking heavily at last year’s banquet, as Victor suspects, and wishes to forget their dance and the sly request he whispered in Victor’s ear, he should still be happy to see the crown prince and tourney champion on his doorstep, offering to train him for nothing. 

Instead Yuuri just gaped at Victor when he found him in the spring last night, before throwing him a towel and turning away. He avoided Victor’s eyes all through dinner, scarcely uttering a word while the rest of the family chatted pleasantly, and after showing Victor to a visitor’s suite of rooms, small but adequate, vanished down one of the long stone corridors.

He's disappeared again this morning, somewhere on the castle grounds. “Training,” Lady Hiroko said, with a nod and a smile. Victor enjoyed a hearty breakfast in the great hall and then came here to the godswood, thinking to take advantage of the hot springs again and consider the situation.

It feels good here, calm and peaceful. The trees around him are ancient and silent, grey as the towers of Winterfell itself. Victor feels every mile between here and King’s Landing, like he’s truly made the escape he dreamt of for so long. No castle intrigue, no worrisome father, no restless lords and ladies taking private meetings with him, airing their concerns. He knows there are problems with money and the city guard, that his father has been stockpiling barrels of explosive wildfire ordered from his personal alchemist, that Lady Regula Lannister has plans of her own, outside of her duties as Hand of the King. The kingdom itself is like a keg of wildfire, ready to go up at the slightest provocation.

And there’s nothing Victor can do. He’s fought in his sham battles long enough, but entangling himself in the real ones still feels far too dangerous. He can’t see his way through. In the meantime, he’ll figure out why Yuuri Stark, the best swordsman he’s faced in years, hasn’t even been knighted yet, let alone won a tourney championship.

With a sigh, Victor pulls himself out of the hot water, reaching for a towel. Makkachin is waiting, back from a romp under the trees that’s gotten her long silky fur delightfully filthy and covered in dead leaves. Victor dries himself, dresses, and sets off in search of his student.

He finds him in a small practice yard off the armory, following the sound of ringing steel. Yuuri is sparring with one of the castle guardsmen, but Victor can already see that it’s no good; the man is too slow and unskilled to provide any real challenge. Indeed, Yuuri is holding back, waiting patiently for the man to right himself before launching another attack. 

Victor comes to stand next to two people watching the bout, from under the arches of the building. One is a tall, heavyset man he takes to be the master at arms here, and the other is an older woman with an upright posture beneath a maestra’s robes. 

“Isn’t there anyone better for him to match against?” Victor asks. 

The man next to him snorts, turning to glance at him before looking back at the fight. “There hasn’t been a man or woman here could match Yuuri since he was ten. My late father couldn’t even keep up with him, let alone me. Your Highness,” he adds, belatedly. 

“Ser Takeshi, you might have been able to keep up with him longer if you’d studied,” the maestra says, acidly. “Or practiced more.”

“So Yuuri will practice with this oaf, and not me,” Victor says, almost to himself. 

He hears steps on the cobbles behind him, and turns to see a younger woman walking up, her dark hair pinned back and wearing an armorer’s heavy apron. She wipes her hands on it and speaks, softly. “He loves to practice. He just doesn’t love an audience.”

Victor nods at her. “He’s never done well in tourneys.”

“From his letters, I think he’s been very unhappy about that,” the woman says. “Being a knight was always his greatest dream. To win tourneys, but most of all to serve in your royal Kingsguard someday.”

“Mine?” Victor says, surprised. The day when he’ll sit the Iron Throne seems so far off, he’s scarcely even thought of it. 

The woman smiles, a little sadly, and goes into the armory.

Victor turns back to where Yuuri is launching an all-out attack on the hapless guardsman, knocking aside his every attempt at defense before whirling to the side and bringing down his wooden practice sword on the man’s wrist. The guardsman lets out a cry and drops his own sword, shaking his hand. Yuuri stops, shoulders heaving with effort, and then pushes back his helm. 

“Sorry,” he says, immediately, concern on his face. He smiles, regretful and sincere. “I got caught up in the moment.”

“Oh, I’ll get the feeling back eventually,” the other man says, his voice surprisingly high. He takes off his own helm and Victor sees he’s hardly more than a boy, with a shock of yellow hair streaked with red in front. He’s looking at Yuuri with pure admiration on his youthful face, though. “That was an amazing sequence! Have you practiced it?”

“Some,” Yuuri says, and looks away. “Do you want to have another go?” He pulls down his helm and steps into position, sword raised for action.

“He’s no genius,” the maestra says, quietly. “But he works harder than anyone in Westeros.”

“Mm,” Victor says. He knows that sequence, because he’s used it to finish dozens of opponents, if not hundreds. Including Yuuri Stark himself. 

“Tell Yuuri to come find me in my rooms when he’s finished,” he says. “Maestra…?”

“Minako,” she says, nodding curtly. “Your Highness — I taught Yuuri for years. Your being here is a great honor, but I think that might be as much of a hindrance as a help.”

Victor sighs. “So many people are nervous in the presence of royalty,” he says, though neither she nor the other castle folk seem to be.

Maestra Minako smiles, as sadly as the armorer did. “It’s a great gift, to be taught by a prince, especially one as renowned as yourself. If Yuuri still can’t succeed, even with all that — well, he feels guilty having spent so much time and gold on his tourney career as it is. Imagine how he’ll feel having wasted the time of a prince.”

“I see,” Victor says. 

“Yuuri’s a good boy,” Ser Takeshi says. “Well, young man now, I suppose. Good heart. He just lives in his own head. Your Highness.”

Victor nods, and turns away. He knows something about that, he thinks.

*****

He’s writing an entry in his journal when Yuuri finally knocks. Victor takes a moment, blotting the page, before shutting the book. “Come in,” he says.

Yuuri walks through the door like a schoolboy expecting to be punished. He twists his fingers together, shoulders hunched high, and stops in the middle of the room, glancing around before staring out the window, over Victor’s head. “Your Highness,” he says, his voice hoarse. 

Victor turns around in his chair at the desk, leaning back and studying Yuuri. His form is good — tall enough, and muscled without being too much so for quickness — and his shoulders are broad. He's carrying extra weight around his middle and face, though, which Victor supposes is from being out of regular training. And he still won't look Victor in the eye.

“I think we got off to a poor start, don't you?” Victor says at last. “You don't need to address me formally every time. In private, just my name will do.”

“Yes, Your Highness,” Yuuri says, automatically. “Er — Victor.”

Victor keeps studying him. “Well, I can't train you, the way you are now.”

Yuuri’s eyes snap to his, at last. Wide and surprised, and his mouth drops open a little as well. “What?”

“Not when you care more about your mother’s pork roast than your conditioning,” Victor says with a laugh. “And not when I can't find you in the morning.”

Yuuri stands straighter, giving a little bow. “I'm sorry. I usually rise early to train.”

“You wouldn't know it,” Victor says, pointedly. “Let's focus on getting you back into fighting shape! Then I can begin training you.”

“Yes,” Yuuri says, again with the speed of a chastened schoolboy. He hesitates, like he's about to say something else, but shuts his mouth, frowning.

Victor frowns himself. Men in their cups are a different breed, but he's still surprised to find Yuuri so shy and nervous, with none of the laughing warmth he remembers from the banquet last year. That wild, exuberant dance in front of half the court wasn't the only thing that brought Victor north, though, and he presses on.

“That finishing sequence,” Victor says. “The one you used in the yard below.”

“Ah,” Yuuri says, and colors up. 

“How did you learn it?” Victor asks.

“Well, er — watching you,” Yuuri says, looking at the ground again. “I go to a lot of tourneys.”

“So why couldn't you disarm me when we met last year in Highgarden?”

Yuuri looks up again, still pink. “I lose my head in the heat of battle. I can do the moves in the training yard by myself, but something always goes wrong in competition.”

“You disarmed that boy this morning,” Victor points out.

“Kenjirou is, uh, not quite as skilled as yourself,” Yuuri says, and finally, _finally_ he smiles.

Victor’s struck by the change in him, the way the smile lights up Yuuri’s whole face, and it takes a moment to register the compliment. “Well, of course not. Still, you're better than your tourney record, and Ser Takeshi says it's all in your head. So tell me about yourself.”

The color rises in Yuuri’s face again. “Um.”

“What else do you like to do besides fight? What's your family like? Are you betrothed?”

“No!” Yuuri says, quickly, raising a hand.

“Me neither,” Victor says with a sigh. “An ambassador was sent to the eastern lands in search of a suitable match for me, but no one of royal blood could be found. So now — ”

“Let me show you around Winterfell,” Yuuri says, hurriedly. “It's a very old castle, if you like history.”

Victor pauses for a moment, as the ruins of Summerhall come into his mind. Scorched and precarious, with the echoes of cries still ringing in his ears, the wildfire tragedy so many years ago. How hard he's worked to turn the dark portents of his birth into something beautiful and bright, with his music and his sword.

“I love history,” he says, smiling broadly. “Show me the castle.”

*****

He wasn't wrong about Yuuri’s stamina. They've toured nearly the whole of Winterfell, crossing covered stone bridges between the various buildings, and throughout Yuuri has kept up a quickly muttered spiel about the history of the castle. He waved a vague hand at the Stark family crypt, hurried Victor up a murderously long and winding spiral stair to the rookery, and then nonchalantly descended to go into the training yard. 

Victor is still getting his breath back as Yuuri gets himself into a set of padded training armor. He has some difficulty tying the shoulder laces, and Victor pushes off the wall and goes to help him. 

“Don't you have a squire?” Victor asks, tying a knot.

Yuuri flushes, as he so often does. “I had one in Dorne, but he was part of the Martell retinue. I didn't feel right asking him to come all the way north with me.”

“Mm,” Victor says, and finishes the lace. “Well, we’d better think about finding one. Unless you want me adjusting your plate at the tourney.”

He thinks, privately, that he wouldn't mind dressing Yuuri, or undressing him either, but Yuuri only colors up again and turns away.

Yuuri trains steadily and well. Victor gets tired, watching him, and goes off to inspect the armory. It's equipped well enough, with the typical assortment of gear and weapons, some for yard practice and most for real battle. He’s heard that the Starks regularly fend off incursions of wildlings from over the Wall to the north, and he supposes it must keep the castle’s guard in fighting form, and the armory in constant business. He runs his finger over the tip of a sharpened halberd, shivering as he thinks of the massing forces back home. The latest rebellion has left his father in a state of constant fear, verging on paranoia.

Near the back he finds an open door, leading to a small chamber. Inside are several faceless wooden mannequins, displaying armor from a bygone time. The armor is made of beautiful lacquered iron plates and tiles, hung on chainmail finer than any he's ever seen. It’s no match for the brutal broadswords of today, but an elegant defense against the slender, sharp swords hanging on the wall above them. The helms are beautiful too, fashioned of folding wood pieces, and Victor imagines Yuuri in a set of armor like this, moving with his graceful form so much more easily than stiff plate or even quilted practice armor.

“The armor of the First Men,” comes a voice from behind him, and Victor turns to see the young armorer. 

She smiles at him, and enters the room. “No one’s used this gear in battle for generations, since the dragon lords came, but we’ve kept up the art. My great-grandparents fashioned this one.”

The woman points to a suit of iron hexagons, sewn to a cloth backing. “This style is called kikko.”

“Like your daughter,” Victor says, remembering hearing the name this morning at breakfast in the hall, as the three small girls tumbled over the benches chasing each other.

She smiles. “Kikko, Karuta, and Kusari. The three traditional forms of armor, I couldn't resist.”

“And you are — ?” Victor asks, suddenly recalling his manners.

She bows deeply. “Yuuko Nishigori, Your Highness.”

Victor nods, and turns back to the armor. “And no one wears this anymore? Not even for show fights?”

“It's been of more use to study the broadsword than the katana,” Yuuko says. “I know Yuuri learned it with Maestra Minako, but he soon turned his interest to the more modern style. More practical, Your Highness.”

Giving her name seems to have made her shyer somehow, as though she's remembered their roles. Victor winces a little; he'd hoped to escape the endless rounds of formality and protocol of his life at the court, everyone around him so aware of his position and how he might help or hinder them. He turns back to the armor, looking above it now to the swords hanging on the wall.

“Are those in good condition?” he asks.

“I sharpen them when I think of it,” Yuuko says. “They're good steel, at least.”

Victor reaches up and takes two of the swords off the wall. In his martial studies, he's read of katanas but never handled one himself. It's light and moves easily, as he sketches a quick arc and thrust with it. He turns to see Yuko’s face shining with pleasure, watching him. 

“Well-balanced,” he says.

Yuuko smiles more broadly. “My great-great-grandfather,” she says.

Victor takes the swords into the yard, where Yuuri is going through a series of tedious exercises meant to strengthen his legs. He's grimacing, sweaty, as he lunges forward again, when Victor walks out.

“Yuuri!” Victor says cheerfully. “Show me how to fence with these.”

“Eh?” Yuuri asks, frowning. He straightens up and wipes his forehead with the back of his hand. “Where did you get those?”

“Yuko tells me you learned katana when you were young,” Victor says. “I want to see.”

He tosses one sword towards Yuuri, who snatches it adroitly from the air. Yuuri studies the blade of the katana, still frowning, as if he's recalling something from long ago. Then he begins to move with it.

Yuuri’s clearly performing some ancient shadow dance, woven into his muscles and sinews at an early age. He moves lightly, turning as he whips the sword behind his shoulder and across his body, again and again. He lifts it, offers it, then turns again, one hand raised to guard against an invisible opponent. Finally he kicks one foot in the air before turning again, finishing with the sword pointing straight at Victor.

He's trembling, panting, sweat glistening on his face and hair, but there's a joy in his face too, as pure and fierce and uncomplicated as anything Victor’s seen from him so far. Victor wants to smile, or clap slowly, acting detached and unconcerned, but instead he walks to the center of the training yard and lowers himself into a crouch, one leg forward, raising his katana until his position mirrors Yuuri’s.

“Begin,” Victor says softly.

“You aren't wearing armor,” Yuuri says, low and out of breath.

Victor shakes his head. “Begin.”

He watches Yuuri carefully as the tips of their swords meet, the beginning of the dance. He can see how hard Yuuri is still breathing, his body tensed, and the way he's focusing so much he's almost cross-eyed, large brown eyes narrowed beneath his brows. Victor’s running over the moves he just saw Yuuri make, plotting a course of action, seeing the bout unfold in his mind, when there's the sound of approaching boots and guardsmen on the entryway cobbles.

“Ah, Yuuri, back to the katana?” Ser Takeshi calls cheerfully. “Maestra Minako will be pleased.”

Yuuri startles, breaking eye contact with Victor as he turns to look at Takeshi. Victor recovers more gracefully, if still regretfully, as he rises from the crouch. 

“Your wife’s ancestors made beautiful things,” Victor says. Ser Takeshi grins and nods, ducking into the guardsroom after his squadron of men. Victor turns back to Yuuri.

“You should incorporate this into your training, for greater dexterity,” he says. “Perhaps your Maestra…”

Yuuri finally rises from his crouch, letting his sword drop. He looks dazed, like he just had a near miss with something, and in truth Victor knows how he feels. Yuuri’s still breathing hard, and his eyes are wide again now, watching Victor.

Victor can't resist reaching in to rest his fingers beneath Yuuri’s chin, lifting it. “It's good you were willing to spar, even with me unprotected,” he murmurs. “Trust between teacher and student — that's what it's about, isn't it?” 

Yuuri makes a strange noise and takes a step back, lifting his sword again. He's still watching Victor, but now it feels like he's guarding himself, warding Victor off. “I'll speak with Maestra Minako,” he says, his voice high-pitched and breaking.

He seems determined to make good on his word right now, as he turns and walks hurriedly across the yard to the armory, stripping off his practice gear as he goes. Victor is left to watch and wonder again, still holding the slender weight of the fine, ancient sword in his hand.

*****

The wagon train with Victor’s things arrives the following day, which improves life at Winterfell immeasurably. The castle may be warm, with the waters of the hot springs running through the walls and beneath the floors, but it doesn't have much in the way of beds compared to the south. Victor surveys his wide, goosedown-filled mattress with pleasure, as well as the hanging tapestries of his hunts and jousts and most especially his harp, set in place of pride near the desk, feeling satisfied at last.

He reads or writes in his journal or plays music, while Yuuri gets himself back in fighting form with long runs and rides, sometimes gone all day. Yuuri makes swift progress, and Victor’s almost sorry to see him become ready for training, because he's enjoyed this restful interlude. The Starks are warm and uncomplicated, nothing like the wary schemers at court or his father’s unpredictable moods. Life at King’s Landing is as sharp and deadly as the Iron Throne itself, and just as likely to cut the unwary. 

Here, Victor amuses the children of the castle with comic songs he learned from the jester at court, or makes Lord Toshiyi weep with tragic historical ballads. He takes advantage of the spring as often as he can, always finding peace in the warm waters and the still solitude of the godswood. His happy, untroubled days are the first he can remember since his childhood, and even then the sorrowful shadow of his birth always seemed to hang over him.

But Yuuri seems ready to move forward together, and Victor is just preparing, somewhat regretfully, for a return to the training ground when unexpectedly his squire arrives. 

Victor’s spent the morning training in the yard, working through the old sequences and trying to find something new in them. He’s considering asking Yuuko if he can borrow the katana again, though, just to get a feel for the weight of it, and maybe seeking out Maestra Minako for some instruction too. Coming here was an easy choice, stepping away from the wearying cycle of tourneys and the same faces, the same thoughtless victories, but he’s begun to wonder if maybe there’s something for him to learn as well. He has a vision of coming into competition with a slender blade like that, surprising everyone and defeating his opponents with their heavy broadswords. It would take months to become proficient, but it might be worthwhile, just for the challenge.

In the meantime, he sketches out a new defense he’s been thinking about, aimed at tripping up a swordsman rather than disarming him. He’s just spinning into another repetition when he’s surprised by a familiar voice. 

“That’s some fancy footwork, Your Highness!” 

Despite the sweet words, the tone is rough and mocking, and Victor turns to see his younger cousin, Yuri Targaryen. 

“Yuri!” Victor says, surprised. “What are you doing so far north?”

Yuri scowls. His blond hair, yellow rather than silver like most of the family’s, hangs in his face, sweaty and scraggly like he’s had a long ride. He probably just dismounted moments ago.

Standing next to him is Yuuri, looking discomfited and a little concerned. Victor leans a hand on the wall, resting the point of his sword on the ground. “Does Ser Yakov know you’re here? Squires shouldn’t travel so far unaccompanied.”

“You’re supposed to knight me this year, you horse’s ass!” Yuri snaps. “And train me too, for the tourney at Harrenhal. You promised.”

Ah. That explains Stark’s awkward, anxious look. He thinks he’s lost his training master already.

Victor presses a finger to his lips, thinking, and then laughs. “Sorry. I suppose I left in something of a hurry. I knew I’d forget something or other.”

“I’m not something or other!” Yuri says. “Now, are you coming back to King’s Landing with me or not?”

A shiver goes through Victor at his words, surprising him. The idea of returning to court is terrible and unappealing, and he doesn’t let it linger. Instead he shifts his glance to Yuuri, questioning. “What do you think I should do, Ser Stark?”

Yuuri’s mouth drops open a little. “I’m not a knight either yet,” he says, quickly. “You know that.”

“Hm,” Victor says, pressing his finger to his lips again. “Well, all I can think is you’ll have to toss for it.”

Yuri reddens. “I’m not letting my tourney career rest on a coin toss!”

Victor laughs. “Sorry, I meant fight for it. A sword bout, right now, what do you think?”

“I’ve just ridden twenty miles,” Yuri blurts, at the same time as Yuuri hastily says, “Let us at least prepare!”

Victor nods, still grinning. “All right, all right. Is three days’ rest enough? We’ll gather the castle smallfolk, give them a show. Whoever takes the bout gets the knighthood. And my skills as trainer, of course,” he adds.

Yuuri looks like he’d like to decline, but his cousin says “Agreed,” quickly, with a look of smug confidence. He turns and eyes Yuuri, looking him up and down. “I’ve seen you in tourneys before, Stark, and I know what you can do. I’m not afraid of you.”

Victor watches, wondering what Yuuri will do in response. His cheeks are pink, but his eyes are bright, and he seems to realize he’s got a few inches on Yuri because he straightens up, lifting his chin. “You don’t have any idea of what I can do.”

Now it’s Yuri’s mouth that drops, and Victor grins again as Yuuri turns to walk away. He catches Victor’s eye as he goes, and over Yuri’s head there’s a moment of crackling connection between them. It disturbs Victor’s composure, seeing a flash of the boy he remembers from the Highgarden banquet, smiling and self-possessed like he knows what he wants.

Then Yuuri’s gone, and Victor’s cousin is in front of him complaining about something or someone back home. All that remains to Victor is a racing heart, and a memory of fierce dark eyes in a pale face.

*****

He tries to help them both prepare, the next few days. Yuri’s training regimen he’s familiar with; lots of stretching and short sprints to help with his pinpoint quickness and flexible reach. Victor tries to help him address the mental component as well, to envision his opponent’s plan and anticipate his moves, but Yuri brushes him off irritably.

“I don’t care about that pig,” he huffs. “Anything he can do, I can counter twice as fast. Anyway, I plan to be on the attack the whole time.”

With a sigh, Victor reflects that’s probably true. Orphaned young and growing up in the vicious Targaryen court, Yuri’s been on the attack his entire life. As the bastard son of Victor’s older cousin, who died giving birth to him, he was dealt a further blow when his golden hair betrayed his parentage, although no Lannister has ever claimed him. Victor’s always shielded him as best as he could, but the time is coming when Yuri will have to learn caution, to defend before he strikes.

Yuuri is a different matter. He seems to want Victor’s help without knowing exactly what he wants or needs. Victor isn’t certain either; his skills are exquisite, when he has the liberty of time, and his instincts are good too, understanding the tension of attack and defense, the physical space around his body. But whenever Victor begins to spar with him, Yuuri makes a few anxious, slashing defensive moves before dropping his sword with an embarrassed laugh. 

“Why do you always do that?” Victor asks, finally, when it’s happened for the third time in a row. “Do you give up so easily on the tourney field as well?”

Yuuri’s looking at the ground, thumb running over the tang of his practice sword’s hilt. “I suppose I lack — confidence.”

“Obviously,” Victor snorts. “What is it? Are you afraid of being hurt?” He doesn’t like to think of Yuuri as a coward, and he doesn’t really believe he is, but maybe that’s the unfortunate answer to all his questions. 

Yuuri looks up at him quickly, though, and shakes his head. “No! I’ve had wounds and blows enough — Ser Celestino wouldn’t have been much of a trainer otherwise. I’m not worried about that.” 

He doesn’t elaborate, just keeps looking up at Victor, biting his lip. Finally Victor sighs and approaches him, dropping a hand on his shoulder. 

“I can’t give you confidence,” he says quietly. “But perhaps if you look deeper, you’ll find more to yourself than you expected.”

He squeezes Yuuri’s shoulder, thumb rubbing the slope of his muscle through the rough weave of his tunic, his gaze purposeful and intent. Victor’s not just talking about swordplay, and he's sure that Yuuri takes his meaning. There’s still that strange, fearful hesitation in Yuuri’s eyes that Victor doesn't understand, but for once he isn't looking away. The intensity between them grows, a low flame, and Victor’s just about to lean in when he hears steps on the cobblestones.

“Oi, it's after lunch and you said you'd drill with me!” Yuri shouts, coming into the training yard.

It seems they're always destined to be interrupted here. Yuuri slips out from Victor’s hand, turning away with an audible sigh of relief, and goes to put his practice sword in the armory rack. Victor stretches his arms over his head and looks over at his cousin, crossly.

“I told you to meet with Maestra Minako this morning,” he says. “She had some books I wanted you to read that might improve your concentration.”

“Books are boring,” Yuri says, flinging his pack on the ground and beginning to tie on his quilted practice armor. “I don't care about concentration. I just need to be faster than that Stark pig.”

Victor looks around for Yuuri but he's already gone. It's never clear how much he takes Yuri’s insults to heart, but Victor’s certain it doesn't help.

He watches Yuri finish dressing, and wonders about tomorrow’s match. Yuri has great promise in the tourney, and Victor thinks it could change his whole life, moving him from the shifting lower ranks of Targaryen cousins to a higher position within the royal house. He might be able to win gold enough to buy lands of his own, or enough honor to receive a fiefdom from Victor’s father somewhere far away. Victor can't exactly see Yuri as a patient, skillful lord, caring for a manor and overseeing smallfolk, but he's still young, and it's the best future Victor can imagine for him.

He comes over to tie the last of the armor at the back of Yuri’s neck, and then picks up his practice sword to begin the spar.

Yuri’s quick and impatient today, unleashing a flurry of sloppy attacks that Victor, warmed up, counters easily. Victor doesn’t mount an attack of his own, just keeps lifting his sword in quick defense as Yuri circles him, frowning furiously.

“What do you want to do with your life?” Victor asks, knocking aside a thrust.

“What?” Yuri asks, with a growl. He shuffles back a step and lunges forward again, sword raised.

“What do you want to be? When you're older.” Victor steps out of the way, bringing down his sword lightly on Yuri’s shoulder as he rushes past. “Point.”

Yuri turns to face him again, shaking his hair out of his eyes. “Captain of your Kingsguard, of course.”

Victor blinks at him, surprised. First Yuuri and now his cousin, already imagining the day when Victor sits the Iron Throne and his father is gone. It's strange to him that they've both thought about it so much, and even more, that they'd sacrifice lives and families of their own in loyalty to him. 

He’s unsettled enough that he's slow to defend against Yuri’s next attack, which catches him on the elbow of his sword arm. Victor winces, shaking his arm as pain shoots through it.

Yuri smirks. “Point.”

“You really want to take the white cloak?” Victor asks, still wincing. “You'd rather that, than be head of your own lands and family?”

“Who wants to bother looking after a lot of farms and peasants?” Yuri asks with a sneer. “Or get married. I'd rather fight.” He gathers himself and launches another attack, trying to make Victor give ground. 

It's a little more difficult to defend against him now, with Victor’s elbow stinging and his mind spinning, and they fall silent for a minute, caught in the work of thrust and parry. Finally their swords meet, blades pressing against the other. Yuri is stronger than Victor remembers, though it takes him both hands to brace up Victor’s weight.

“Westeros is at peace,” Victor says, a little breathless. “The Kingsguard has nothing to do but mind the castle.”

“How long do you think that peace will last?” Yuri asks, between clenched teeth. He gathers himself and pushes Victor back a step, then comes at him with his sword. 

Victor has had enough. He unleashes the full power of his attack now, battering Yuri back towards the wall, step by step. Yuri grimaces and shouts, and he's still quick but he's tired out by his earlier efforts, forced into a defensive stance instead. Victor is faster, stronger, and taller, and he moves without thinking into his usual finishing sequence, disarming Yuri in a few moves. Yuri’s sword drops into the dirt and Yuri glares up at him.

“Don't think I don't know why you're hiding up here, in this barbarian castle,” Yuri spits. “Yakov says you're not a coward, just an optimist. I think you're a blinkered fool too frightened to take what's yours.”

He spins on his heel and stalks out of the yard, picking up his sword as he goes. 

Victor breathes hard, leaning against the wall with one hand. Yuri’s words echo in his ears and he lets himself feel them for one throbbing, weightless moment of pain before shaking his head, discarding them.

Yuri’s young and hungry for glory and excitement, and he loves to say cruel things that cut to the quick. Always more attack than defense, sound than substance. 

Victor wipes his brow and leaves the practice yard, thinking to find peace in the hot springs as usual. It’s been a long morning, and tomorrow feels like it will decide his fate, in some strange way. Whether to stay here, peaceful and secluded, growing closer to Yuuri and his family and learning their ways, or to return with Yuri to the roiling morass of King’s Landing, to a battle he still can’t see the shape of, shifting alliances and hidden dangers. 

He knows he owes loyalty to his cousin, to shield and guide him the way he promised. He shouldn't have a favorite in this fight. But he can’t stop thinking of Yuuri Stark’s eyes, wide and determined, or the promise he sees in him, and he knows which way his heart inclines.


	3. Three - Yuuri

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter in which Things Start to Happen! (Also I'm well into chapter six now, and you'll notice the chapter count has sprung an epilogue).

Yuuri rises early, the morning of the duel. Hardly anyone is stirring in the castle, and he takes a light breakfast as he passes through the kitchens, nibbling an apple as he goes. His stomach is stale and unsettled, with the familiar acid of competition nerves, and his eyes are dry from a broken night’s sleep. 

He hates this feeling. The heavy dread before a battle, certain he’ll make a mistake and humiliate himself, or simply that his opponent’s skill will be superior. He’s watched Yuri Targaryen practice these last two days, with his royal training and fine equipment. The boy is talented too; unbelievably quick and precise, though perhaps tiring easily. Most of all, he has the confidence that Yuuri longs for, the lack of hesitation on the field. He sees what he wants and he strikes, for good or for ill. 

Yuuri thinks that might be the boy’s weakness as well, but it all depends on his own ability to exploit it. He’s only just gotten back into fighting form, after the long weeks of journeying here and the lost time spent languishing in Dorne before that, recovering from his last tourney. He’s in fine shape now, but his combat training hasn’t been as thorough. It’s awkward and embarrassing, but even after the last month he can still barely bring himself to look Prince Victor in the eye, much less face him on the training ground.

He still doesn’t fully understand what Victor is doing here, in Winterfell. Training _him_. Stepping away from royal life and competing in tournaments himself, seemingly just to spend time relaxing in the godswood hot springs and entertaining the children of the castle with his harp. Yuuri’s listened a few times himself, surreptitiously; the prince’s musical talent is as prodigious and famed as his skills in the tourney, but Yuuri’s rarely heard him perform. Mostly Victor sings comic songs, coaxing laughter from the children, but one evening after dinner he played a soft, sweet ballad by the fire, with a starry, distant look on his face. It brought the household to tears, Yuuri included, and when pressed Victor had admitted the song was his own composition. Then he’d launched into another light-hearted song, chasing away the heavy moment, though Yuuri hasn’t forgotten that expression.

He knows something complicated is going on beneath Victor’s calm exterior, laughing or serious by turns but never revealing his true thoughts. It’s hard to imagine that it involves Yuuri at all, except he’s here, and Yuuri keeps catching a look in the prince’s eyes that isn’t so different from that night by the fire. 

Today none of that matters, though, if Yuuri can’t defeat that quick, talented, confident Targaryen boy. Prince Victor will go home and Yuuri will be left exactly where he was, with an uncertain future and only memories of what could have been. 

When he comes into the training yard Ser Takeshi is already there, leading a couple of young boys in taking hacks at the straw-stuffed dummy. Yuuri smiles, remembering when they were the boys and Takeshi’s father the master at arms here, encouraging them as they swung just as wildly with their wooden practice swords as the boys are now. Takeshi always hit harder, but Yuuri’s aim was more true, and Takeshi’s father used to swear they’d make the perfect knight if only somehow they could be welded together. 

Takeshi’s bigger and much heavier now, and he still hits hard, Yuuri’s sure. He nods and smiles as Yuuri goes into the armory for his gear, giving instruction to the boys. 

“From the hips! All the power is in your legs, you know that. No, no, don’t _stab_ it — he’s leaking enough straw as it is.”

Inside the armory Yuuri goes back to the display room first, as has always been his custom. He bows at the old suits of armor and the katanas hanging on the wall, thinking of his ancestors, the First Men. He imagines the days when these lands were even more thickly wooded, with the Children of the Forest still in their ancient strongholds, and there was magic in the world. Perhaps woven into suits of armor like these, the way it was in the stories his old nanny used to tell them before bed. 

Yuuri finishes his homage to the armor and the katanas, then returns outside with his blunted practice broadsword, a less graceful weapon but more practical in these times of plate mail and mounted combat. He’ll have to return to jousting soon too, a less-important event but still required. So much preparation for the tourney, but he can’t let himself think of the alternative.

Back in the yard, he swings through a series of moves without thought, his body doing the same things it has since he was as young as those boys. A jab, a thrust, a parry, positioning his body against his invisible opponent, shifting his step and bringing up his guard. He thinks of Yuri’s lightning quickness and tries to defend against it, the way he’ll have to this afternoon. He’s stronger, and his only hope is that his stamina can outlast Yuri’s, wearing him down enough to get in an attack.

“You’re looking sharper,” Takeshi says from behind him. 

Yuuri completes a circular move and brings down his sword, point resting in the dirt. “Thanks,” he says, a little out of breath. “I’m trying to build up my strength. I’ll need it, to defend against the Targaryen and his speed.”

“Yes, he’s little but quick,” Takeshi says, whistling. “You’re just going to hold out against him until something gives?”

“That’s the idea,” Yuuri says. He lifts his sword and holds it at an angle in front of his body, putting on a tough, cross-eyed look. “Maintain the defensive space!” he says, mimicking Takeshi’s father’s tone. 

Takeshi laughs. “That’s it! You’re the stronghold — make him scale the keep.” 

It’s another familiar saying; his father was staid and stolid, always making them focus on defense maneuvers. It wasn’t the best grounding for tourney fighting, Yuuri later found, but he supposes it was good wisdom for a castellan tasked with keeping a fortress safe. Fancy attacks aren’t much against wilding great swords.

Takeshi claps him on the back and returns to oversee the boys again. Yuuri goes through another few passes, until his shoulders begin to ache with holding up his guard, and then he stops to take a rest and think. 

He watched Yuri yesterday afternoon, dashing through attacks. Some of them were complex and unknown to him, probably from a manual or book only royals had access to, but there was a similarity between them, too. Yuri’s fast but he can be sloppy, not finishing one maneuver before beginning the second, like his brain moves even quicker than his body or he’s just impatient to be done. He has a tendency to get too fancy, too, like he’s showing off his skills without thinking about real combat. 

Yuuri hasn’t been very successful in combat, but he’s _been_ in it. He knows how rapidly it can move, all one’s plans unraveling, and the shock of facing someone just as determined as himself, seeking his weaknesses. Maybe Yuri’s practiced with other boys his age, or servants trained to give him the advantage. He doesn’t think Yuri’s really prepared to face someone as desperate as Yuuri feels.

He leans back against the wall, his mind still racing. His plans have focused so far on defense, on waiting out Yuri’s fierce rain of attacks and counting on his superior stamina, but what if he took the offense early? Not a win of attrition but doing what he wants so much to do, what Victor keeps asking of him — moving with confidence, taking what he wants. Could he actually out-duel Yuri with his own skills?

The morning of the battle is a little late for a change in strategy, he thinks ruefully, and then he remembers the katanas hanging in the armory. They won’t be much use against a broadsword, but the training Yuuri learned with them as a boy might be. He goes and fetches two of them, and then ascends the stairs to wake up Maestra Minako.

She was always a late riser, to the amusement and delight of Mari and the other children she instructed when Yuuri was young. He was the one begging to begin their lessons earlier, until she gave him books to study on his own. Thinking about it now, poring over those manuals and history books alone in the early hours, that feels like the start of everything. 

Now he hesitates a moment before knocking on her door, deciding it’s important enough to risk her wrath. Nothing could be worse than losing Prince Victor, now that he’s come all the way here. 

It takes a while, but eventually the maestra stumbles to the door, heavy-eyed and grumpy. She yawns when she sees Yuuri, still frowning, and stretches one hand over her head, the other clutching her robes. “Let me guess. You need to practice.”

Yuuri can’t help smiling. It’s true he’s woken her up early more than once with those words, when he was young and every day seemed vital. There’s never been a morning quite as important as this one, though. 

“I need to be fast, in the duel,” he says. “I was going to wait him out, but I think…I’ve seen some flaws in his attack, and I want to exploit them. I don’t want to give him the chance to beat me first.”

Maestra Minako nods, pressing her lips together. “It’s a new approach for you, Yuuri.”

“I know,” he says. “I thought we could try it with the katana first? It’s a lighter blade, and I could get the feel for what I want to do.”

“If you practice in the training yard, won’t he be there?” she asks.

Yuuri nods. “We could go to the clearing in the godswood.”

He waits while she dresses behind a screen and has a servant fetch her bread and a flask of hot tea, and then they go into the woods. They used to practice here sometimes when Yuuri was very small, and shy of the bigger children in the practice yard. It feels right, being surrounded by the dense, blanketing sentinel trees, and he wishes the duel could be here as well. 

Maestra Minako looks more awake now, holding the katana in front of her body and smiling faintly at it, like an old friend. “I've seen how the Targaryen boy moves,” she says. “Like this — ” She demonstrates, lunging out suddenly, swinging the blade an inch in front of his nose. “Fast, all instinct, but sloppy. He needs to learn precision and patience.” 

She swings the blade again, pointing at Yuuri. “You have both, but you’re right — you wait too long. What did you have in mind?”

Yuuri shows her, sketching a series of complicated turns and thrusts. “When he does this — ” he makes a jab, “then I think — if I — ” he twists his body, disarming an invisible Yuri, and comes to a stop, breathing hard. “What do you think?”

She looks at him for a long moment, thinking, and then nods. “You’ll have to be very fast, no hesitation. But he won’t be expecting it, and I think it’ll work. Let’s try.”

They practice for an hour in the godswood, Maestra Minako dripping sweat and shouting at him. “Instinct! React! Stop thinking!” She sounds enough like Ser Celestino that Yuuri grimaces, remembering the hours of fruitless drilling at Sunspear. 

He tries, though, and he can feel himself relaxing, mind letting go as his body takes over. It knows what to do, and how to move, and his brain is only getting in his way. Finally Maestra Minako calls a halt and they rest on the soft turf of the clearing, sharing the remains of her breakfast.

“You weren’t always like this,” she says, swallowing a bite of bread. “Speed was your greatest strength as a child — you moved so fast none of us could catch you. Always climbing the castle walls to the roof! While your poor father begged you to come down before you broke your neck, and your mother just laughed. What happened?”

Yuuri sighs, lying back and tucking his hands under his head, staring at the branches above. “Once I got into competition…it was all so overwhelming. I won my first few bouts on instinct alone, so scared I just hammered at them until they went away. After that, I’d try to prepare for the fight but once I went in, I just had nothing. Mind blank, and my body frozen too. I felt so slow, like I was underwater and trying to keep up.”

“You did well enough at the Highgarden tourney last year,” she points out. “If you hadn’t had to face the prince, you might have gone through to the final round.”

Yuuri winces. He hates remembering that fight, and thinking about Victor reminds him of the one ahead of him this afternoon. “I think getting through the first rounds was a fluke. I had a good draw. The prince showed my real worth.”

“Hmm,” Maestra Minako says. She gives him a long look, but doesn’t say anything more. Finally she brushes off her hands and stands up. “Well, I think we’ve practiced as much as is good for you. Now you need a bath and a nap.”

Yuuri looks up at her, feeling startled and alarmed. “Shouldn’t we try it one more time?”

She laughs, shaking her head. “I’m no fifteen year old squire! You’ve tired me out enough for one day — you’ll have to wait to batter _his_ bones instead this afternoon.”

Yuuri bows his head, realizing just how much he’s asked of her today. “Thank you, Maestra,” he says quietly. “If I don’t win today — ”

“Then you’ll start the next tourney season all the same,” she says, briskly. “Prince Victor’s handsome enough, but there’s no reason to stake your whole career on his whims. I think he can help you, but if he goes back home…you’re still who you are, Yuuri. No one can take that away.”

He looks up at the fierce tone in her words. She’s smiling, though, and he smiles back. “Thank you,” he says again.

*****

Yuuri does feel better after a bath and a nap, though the solid, heavy anxiety that’s been in his chest all day hasn’t diminished. He wants to believe Maestra Minako’s words, that a loss today won’t upend his whole world, but the truth is this is the most he’s ever wanted anything, and the first time he’s felt so determined to take it, since that day years ago when he first dreamed of being a knight. 

There’s a straight line from those dreams to today, he realizes, lying in bed. He wants something from Victor; anything, everything. These difficult two years of tourney competition have clouded it somewhat, but the dream is the same. To stand by Prince Victor as his equal. 

Yuuri gets out of bed and begins to dress, with a sense that he’s going to meet his fate. 

The duel isn’t for another hour or so, and when he gets to the training yard the only person there is Yuri. He almost turns right back around when he sees him, but this is his home and he has as much of a right to be here as Yuri does. More than that, the last thing he wants is for Yuri to think of him as weak. 

So Yuuri strides into the yard and watches for a while. The boy is as good as ever. They’ve trained here for the last three days but he’s kept to himself mostly, though Yuuri did see him talking to Yuuko yesterday. He gets the sense that Yuri’s as proud as he is in order to compensate for something, though he doesn’t know what. 

There’s an edge to Yuri, like he’s always got his back up, facing the world with a defensive snarl before it hurts him. In a strange way Yuuri sympathizes with that, though it isn’t his own way. He knows how it feels to be an outsider, and to sense that no one wants him to succeed; that he can only have whatever he’s able to win for himself. 

Prince Phichit was the same, and he dealt with it even more lightly than Yuuri, unconcerned for now with wins and losses. “We’re young,” he told Yuuri, so many times. “There will be space for us, whether or not they want us to take it.” Dorne has always had a different position within Westeros, retaining a royal family and some degree of independence under the Targaryen conquerors, unlike the other noble houses. It was a strange friendship, the Dornish heir and the Northerner, but they were both outsiders in their way.

And Yuri seems to be one as well, whatever his last name might be. He swings his sword with that swift grace, face hard and determined, like this is all that matters. Perhaps he’s trying to win honor and position in the tourneys like so many, and he needs Victor’s help as much as Yuuri does. 

Well, he’ll have to wait until the next season, Yuuri thinks grimly, walking forward to greet him. 

“I hope you slept well,” Yuuri says, courteously. 

Yuri starts, whirling to face him, and shakes a piece of dirty-gold hair from his eyes. “Don’t play nice with me. You won’t soften me up.”

Yuuri can’t help laughing, the tension in his chest easing. Yuri is so _young_. “If you were that soft, I doubt you’d be here.” He grins as Yuri frowns suspiciously at him, trying to ferret out his meaning. “I can see you’re a skilled competitor. I’m greeting you with respect. Haven’t you been in a tourney fight before?”

There’s a pause before Yuri says, grudgingly, “No.” He adds quickly, “I’ve beaten my old training master plenty of times. He just wouldn’t let me enter a tourney until I was knighted.”

Yuuri nods sympathetically. “And he wouldn’t knight you?”

“No,” Yuri says, making a face. “What am I supposed to do? He won’t let me compete until I’m knighted, and he keeps saying I’m not ready for that. How else am I supposed to improve unless I face others?” He studies Yuuri, suddenly looking curious. “You’ve competed for two years without a knighthood.”

“I’m older,” Yuuri says, raising his hands. “And it did feel foolish, never being announced as Ser Yuuri.”

“Well, they won’t do it for _you_ ,” Yuri says, scowling again. “I’ll be the first Ser Yuri.”

Yuuri smiles, still shrugging. “Perhaps!”

He turns and goes into the armory for his gear. Yuuko has it all prepared, polished and laid out, and it’s strange to see it here. The serviceable tourney sword Ser Celestino gave him when he turned eighteen, and the gear Phichit’s squire used to put on him once he’d finished with his own master. Yuuri runs a hand over it, wishing suddenly that he had a token or favor of some kind, something with a bit of luck to carry him through, or at least make him feel like the gods are on his side. 

There’s a step behind him, and he looks back over his shoulder to see Yuri again. The boy is still scowling, but he points to a pile of trunks in the corner. “Uh, Victor brought along some gear, if you want to look through it. He says to take anything you like.” 

Yuri stiffens up, shoulders back, like he’s nerving himself to confess something. “I’ve already got his old tourney armor that he gave me last year. So I suppose he thought it would be fair.” He nods, duty done, then spins around and leaves. 

It’s hard to believe Yuuri missed the trunks when he first came in here. The pile is enormous, six or seven at least, overflowing with armor and weapons once he opens them. Showy golden chainmail never meant to face a real blade, heavy black plate that could stand up to wildfire, small jeweled daggers and beautiful broadswords wrapped in chamois sheaths. An entire trunk packed closely with only helms, each finely wrought in the familiar shape of a dragon’s head.

Yuuri feels like he’s looking through a treasure trove, something precious and renowned, and that he’s lucky just to be allowed to touch these beautiful things. He remembers several of them from previous tourneys or paintings he’s seen, all part of the prince’s storied career. They’re wonderful to look at, but they feel somehow like display pieces, too valuable to carry into battle. He’s worried, too, about changing from his own gear right before a fight. His things are plain but he knows their weight and movement well, after all these years. 

His hands linger over a sleeveless tabard, though. It’s made of heavy, close-woven black linen, trimmed with riveted leather and blazoned with a silver swan, worked in fine metallic thread. As he stares at it, he realizes it’s the same one Victor was wearing all those years ago, at the Harrenhal tourney when Yuuri was first taken by him, making the vow that set him on the path that’s led to today. 

“Ah, you’ve found my secret identity,” Victor says, from behind him.

Yuuri looks up as the prince strolls into the room, still drinking from a goblet. His mother _never_ lets them take tableware from the great hall. 

Victor comes to stand next to where Yuuri is kneeling in front of the trunk, looking down with a distant smile on his face. “One of my first tourneys, I entered pretending to be a member of House Swann, with this tabard and a different helm. I was worried the other competitors were going easy on me, you see. But everyone saw right through the disguise.” He laughs, tipping his head back to finish his wine. 

“You wore this again, though,” Yuuri says. “I saw you,” he adds, and stops himself from saying anything more. Victor doesn’t need to know about all that. 

Victor laughs again. “My father was furious. He thought I was ashamed of my family name. He made me compete in every tourney that year wearing this tabard, to remind me.” 

The smile vanishes abruptly from his face, and his gaze becomes distant. Then he seems to give himself a shake, returning to the present day. 

“Perhaps you should wear it,” Victor says, letting his hand rest on Yuuri’s shoulder. “A new identity, for a fresh start.”

Yuuri nods. Victor’s hand is warm on his shoulder, and he doesn’t want him to move away, but — “I need to start preparing,” he says reluctantly. 

“Of course!” Victor says, and squeezes once more before stepping away. “You’d better do it in here — there’s quite a crowd gathering outside.”

The sick heaviness in Yuuri’s chest returns for a moment, and he clenches his teeth, getting to his feet with the tabard in his hands. “I hope Yuuko’s out there,” he says. “I need someone to help me get my armor on.”

“Mm,” Victor says, pressing a finger to his lips. “We still need to find you a squire.”

“Later,” Yuuri says. His head’s getting a little light now, thinking of the duel ahead, and it’s hard to imagine anything beyond getting through this day. He’s remembering, too, the way Victor helped him into his practice gear the other day, standing so close he could feel Victor’s breath on his neck.

He’s struck with a sudden fear, that Victor might not be taking this seriously, that it will mean nothing to him if Yuuri loses and he goes back to King’s Landing. It was a long journey here and he can’t believe that Victor made it lightly, but at the same time Victor acquiesced to his cousin’s demands so quickly, perhaps it really was just a whim of a moment, like Maestra Minako thinks. Perhaps he was just bored.

“You’ll watch, right?” Yuuri asks, getting to his feet. 

Victor’s still close behind him, so that Yuuri can see the surprise in those distant blue eyes. He blinks. “Of course.” 

Yuuri takes a deep breath. “Even if I don’t win — I’ve worked hard. I’ve tried to listen to your advice, even if it doesn’t seem like it. You’ve already helped me so much.”

He has the desire to embrace Victor, pulling him close while he still can, but it doesn’t seem like something he should do with a prince. Yuuri just lets out a shaky breath and bows his head, feeling his heart pounding in his chest. 

Victor makes a strange sound, like he was going to say something but changed his mind. Instead his hand drops on Yuuri’s shoulder like before, warm and solid. “I’m glad,” he finally says, softly. “I can’t wait to see you do your best. It’s why I came here.”

Yuuri can’t help looking up at that, frowning, but before he can ask Victor the question that’s been on his mind the door to the yard opens, letting in sunlight and the sound of a large and restless crowd as Yuuko comes in.

“Yuuri?” She asks. “I came to see if you needed help with your armor.”

“Yes!” Victor says, taking a step back and turning to face her. “Thank you for saving me the trouble of coming outside. Yuuri was asking for you.”

She smiles at him, wide and pleased. Yuuri remembers she admired Victor as much as he did, back when Victor was only the far-off, untouchable prince to them both. “I already helped your cousin,” she says. “Your old armor fits him so beautifully! I can’t wait to see him compete in a tourney someday.”

“Someday soon, if he has his way,” Victor says with a smile. He nods at Yuuri. “I’ll see you outside,” he says.

Yuuri watches him go, the same unspoken questions as always echoing in his mind, mingling with the way his blood is beginning to move swift and hot, preparing him for the combat ahead.

“Yuuri?” Yuuko asks him, sounding concerned. 

He shakes his head. “Hand me that tabard, please?” 

*****

There isn’t much room for spectators in the practice yard, but seemingly everyone in the castle who could possibly squeeze in has, Yuuri sees when he comes outside. His mother must have given them a half day, and he’s both grateful for the energy they bring and shrinking from the extra attention. It feels more real this way, more like the arena at a tourney, but at the same time it’s more people to witness his potential shame. He’s already come home an acknowledged failure, and this is meant to be his chance at redemption. Yuuri just hopes he can take it.

Yuri is waiting on the other side, leaning on the point of his sword. Both of their weapons are blunted, of course, but Yuuri’s had plenty of bruises and cuts from practice swords. Sometimes it’s seemed his body was nothing but purple and green contusions, always some sore place he had to favor. It’s the life of a competitive fighter, and the trick is to move without showing the pain, the secret injuries. 

He doubts Yuri has any of those. He seems as young and fresh as ever, wearing light, silvery armor Yuuri remembers seeing Victor wear years ago. The breastplate is polished to a mirror shine, and the open dragon helm looks fierce above Yuri’s even fiercer glare. Yuri’s like a weapon himself, slender and sharp, and the fight ahead will be as difficult as any he’s faced.

Yuuri takes a deep breath, reminding himself of what he practiced this morning. Speed and grace, instead of waiting for some mischance or mistake. He knows the weaknesses in Yuri’s attack. He only has to take an opening when he sees it. 

He hardly listens as Takeshi makes a few brief announcements, welcoming the crowd like it’s a real event. Takeshi’s enjoying this, he can tell, and the assembled people cheer and clap; they never have tourneys this far north, and this is probably the best entertainment they’ve seen all year. Takeshi makes a final, grand gesture, then steps back and into the crowd.

Yuuri lowers his helm, until all he can see of the world is the narrow vertical slits cut into it, and all he can hear is his own breath inside the steel. He thinks for a moment of the silver-embroidered swan on his chest, the lightness and grace of it, wings poised to take flight. Then he advances forward, into the center of the yard. 

They meet in the middle, swords raised. Yuuri bows first, and and after a pause Yuri bows back. Yuuri lifts his sword to the ready position, and Yuri mirrors it, sword raised just a little higher, like he’s already moving in.

“Begin,” Takeshi shouts.

He lets Yuri take the first attack. It’s simple to counter, but Yuuri hesitates just a moment and the impact of their swords is still jarring, a shock that moves up his arm. It makes the duel real suddenly, putting all his focus on the space between them, the physical sense of combat. He knows this.

Yuri strikes again almost before he’s ready for it, but he counters that too, bringing his shield up. The impact is less sharp, partly because of the absorbent leather and partly because he didn’t delay this time. Yuri lets out a soft snarl and draws back, trying again.

He’s ready for the third attack, and the fourth, parrying them with sword and shield in a kind of rhythmic dance, like he can see them coming. Yuri’s fast but he’s predictable, and for a minute Yuuri’s strategy wavers. He could wait the boy out, let him get tired, finish him off with an unexpected show of strength. But there’s always the chance of a mistake, one of these furious thrusts getting through his guard, and he doesn’t really want to win by wearing Yuri down, being cautious and stolid like Takeshi’s father taught him. 

Yuuri wants to _win_.

Prince Victor came here just to train him, for whatever strange reason. Yuuri wants to be worthy of it. To show that, whatever Victor saw in him at Highgarden, he wasn’t mistaken.

So he counters three more thrusts with his buckler and makes two strikes of his own, waiting for the weakness to show. He's looking for the place in Yuri’s practiced, complicated attack when he leaves himself open too long, focusing on his next dazzling show of agility rather than a living, thinking opponent. Waiting for his moment. 

Yuuri strikes, overhand, spinning away. Yuuri sees his opening, and for once, he doesn’t hesitate. 

He lunges forward, taking advantage of his superior stride and reach. He hooks his foot behind Yuri’s, preventing him from retreating, and brings his sword down on Yuri’s mailed wrist. The metal clangs and Yuri yells, jerking back, but his foot is still trapped and he gets tangled up with Yuuri’s leg, so off balance he nearly falls. He makes a good effort with a crossways blow at Yuuri’s chest, but Yuuri has momentum and weight on his side now and he shifts forward, pushing him away. 

He yanks his foot back and Yuri topples, pulled down by force and his own heavy armor. Yuri hits the dirt hard, but gets up on one elbow immediately, sword raised. Yuuri knocks it from his grip and pushes the point of his own sword at the place where Yuri’s helm and gorget meet, his throat exposed now by the way his head is tipped back.

“Yield,” Yuuri says, breathless. 

For a moment, Yuri doesn't. He lies there in the dirt of the Winterfell training yard, panting hard, staring up at Yuuri with furious green eyes through the slits of his silver dragon helm. Yuuri has a strange, swimming feeling, remembering when he faced Victor last year, wondering if it could have ended this way instead. How he would have felt, and how everything would have changed. Maybe Victor would never have come here, if Yuuri had beaten him then.

“Do you yield?” Yuuri asks, softer now. A question, allowing for more than one answer. 

This time, Yuri just turns his head away, rolling out from beneath Yuuri’s sword. He doesn’t look at Yuuri as he gets up, but he doesn’t pick up his own sword either. Instead he leaves it there in the dirt, as he stalks out of the yard.

The crowd has been silent since Yuri fell, but they cheer once he’s gone. It’s a sweet sound, celebrating his victory, but Yuuri feels a strange, unexpected ache as well, like something was lost here as well as won. 

He takes off his helm, though, and smiles when Yuuko comes running to greet him, followed by his mother. He realizes they’ve never seen him in competition before, much less victorious, and their congratulations are sincere and effusive.

“That strike at his greave!” Yuuko is saying, as his mother clings to his armored waist as best as she can. 

Yuuri looks up and sees Victor crossing the yard to him. He’s beaming, eyes crinkled up beneath a lock of silvery hair that’s slipped loose from its tie. Yuuri pushes down the thought that maybe he would have smiled just as brightly for his cousin, and goes to him. 

“Yuuri!” Victor says. He embraces Yuuri tightly, and then pulls back to look at him. “Congratulations. It was wonderful to see you take the attack at last. But why were you so sloppy with your defense? You could have beaten him earlier if you’d only kept him on his toes more.”

Yuuri grins, reaching up to hold the back of his own sweaty neck as the prince lectures on. He supposes this is what he’ll have to get used to, now Victor is staying.

It strikes him, then, that he has the thing he most wanted. He fought for it, and he won, seizing his own destiny. Changing the course of his own life.

“And now, your knighthood!” Victor says, stepping away. “We can do it here, or perhaps in your family’s chapel of the Seven — ”

“The godswood,” Yuuri says firmly. They have a chapel, which his father sometimes visits, but the Starks have adhered to the old gods even as the Faith of the Seven became common practice throughout Westeros. He has a thought, and without hesitating he adds, “And Yuri too.”

Victor frowns at him. “You want him to attend the ceremony? That seems a little…unkind.”

Yuuri shakes his head, fast. “No, he deserves a knighthood as much as I do. He fought well, and you already promised him, Your Highness.”

At the use of his title, Victor raises an eyebrow, giving him a sidelong, considering glance. Then he raises his hands as well, shrugging. “Of course. I can’t refuse you anything today, Yuuri.”

He leans in and embraces Yuuri again, pressing their cheeks together. Yuuri closes his eyes for a moment, in the arms of his prince at last, and then steps back to ready himself for what comes next.

*****

When they find Yuri in his room, shoving things into his travel pack, he isn’t grateful at the news. “I don’t want a pity title,” he spits at Victor. “You set the conditions of the duel. I lost and this pig won.”

“This pig is the one who insisted that you be knighted as well,” Victor says, sighing. 

Now Yuri looks over, something hard and mocking entering his expression. He sneers. “What, did you feel bad about winning? I knew you were soft, but this is pathetic.”

Yuuri expected this reaction, and he smiles blandly at Yuri, giving nothing away. “It would give me great pleasure to be knighted alongside you,” he says, formally, and adds, “Besides, any victory at the Harrenhal tourney won’t mean much if you aren’t in it.”

That makes Yuri squint with suspicion, and he looks back at Victor. “Ser Yakov won’t like it,” he says. “But he said I couldn’t compete until I was knighted, right? He’ll have to let me go.”

Victor grins, looking pleased. “He’s a man of his word.”

Yuri finally nods, still scowling. “All right. But only because I want a chance to reclaim my honor. Next time, you’ll be the one in the dirt.”

“I can’t wait,” Yuuri says, rolling his eyes.

They hold the ceremony in the godswood, just a few words and a touch of Victor’s sword to their shoulders. Yuuri’s mother and father cry, and he’s pleased they could be here, pleased that after so many years apart he can be woven into the fabric of the family again so easily. He knows Mari’s making her usual cynical face, bored with the trappings of chivalry and combat, but she’s here too and that means something. He feels like he’s beginning to find himself, when he didn’t even know he was lost.

“Arise, Ser Yuuri,” Victor says. He doesn’t make it clear which of them he’s addressing, and there’s an awkward moment when they both start to get up at once, then kneel back down, exchanging confused glances. 

“And Ser Yuri,” Victor say, sounding like he’s stifling laughter. “Both of you.”

They rise, knighted.

Yuuri is still wearing the embroidered swan tabard, rather than changing to his usual one. The colors are the same, black and silver, but somehow the graceful bird feels more right to him than his own family’s sigil, a powerful direwolf head. His mother notices.

“Is that Victor’s surcoat?” she asks, crossing the glade to congratulate him again. She traces a finger over the threads of the embroidery, looking down to study the work.

“Er, yes,” Yuuri says, feeling awkward. “I’m sorry, I know I should’ve worn our sigil. I didn’t mean any dishonor — ”

Lady Hiroko looks up at him, a smile on her face. “It suits you, my son. Maybe you needed a new pair of wings.”

That night he and Yuri keep vigil, in the black and chilly woods with only the burble of the spring and a single lantern for company. It’s tough work, kneeling through the hours, though Yuuri’s glad to be doing it on soft turf instead of the hard stones of the chapel floor. They don’t speak, according to the custom, but he thinks he hears Yuri drift off once or twice, waking himself with a snort before he tumbles over.

Dawn creeps through the dense branches of the forest slowly, dark one moment and illuminated the next. Yuuri feels like he’s seeing everything for the first time, a new world of hope and hard work. He hasn’t felt this way since he was small, this belief that if he only strives sincerely enough, the things he wants are within reach. This glimmer of faith in himself. 

He sneaks a glance at Yuri, head still bent over his sword, golden hair falling in his face. This boy is younger than him but he seems to have everything Yuuri’s lacked; confidence, quickness, the power of the royal family behind him. 

It’s not as simple as that, though. There’s a vulnerability beneath his callous exterior, just as there was a weakness in his attack, and in sparring against him Yuuri’s learned so much. More than that, he’s gained Victor, in a way he didn’t have him three days ago, because he had to fight for him. This outside threat, this challenge, has made so many things clear. 

“Yuri,” he says, softly. “It’s morning.”

The boy blinks and looks up, shaking his hair back like he was almost asleep. “Finally,” he growls. “Someone had better give me some food before I pass out.” 

They both stand, knees cracking and as they stretch out their aching backs. Yuuri feels like he could sleep for a week, all the soreness from yesterday’s duel making itself known. They gather their things, and have just begun walking along the path towards the castle keep when he’s surprised to see a figure moving through the early morning mist. Tall, broad-shouldered, and with that long fall of silver hair that’s unmistakable anywhere.

Yuuri holds back a moment, walking more slowly. He wonders if Victor feels the same as he does — that everything’s changed now that Yuuri’s wanted something, reached for something. If he even sees a glimmer of Yuuri’s true feelings.

Victor’s as hard to read as ever, wrapped in that aura of royalty and serene confidence, but he smiles brightly, lifting a hand to them both. He’s wearing a deep red cloak against the morning chill, and as Yuuri gets closer he sees that it’s pinned at the shoulder with a small silver brooch. The pin is swan-shaped, and Yuuri’s already learned Victor never dresses without careful consideration. 

“ _He_ looks well-rested,” Yuri grumbles.

Yuuri smiles, and steps out of the woods into the sunlight.


	4. Four - Victor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Going up a little early this week! I'm changing the posting day from Wednesday to Saturday. Working on chapter 7 now, and I actually hope to switch from every other week to weekly posting at some point. :)

Victor’s been waiting for nearly an hour.

The joust isn’t his favorite event, though he’s more than competent at it. He enjoys the riding, but it lacks the grace and strategy of the sword bout, trying to knock another man off his horse with a ten foot pole. Victor always feels distant from the crowd, focused on his brutal task. He’s unhorsed countless opponents and almost never been unseated himself since he was very young, but he always hurries through jousting day as quickly as he can. 

So he doesn’t blame Yuuri for wanting to delay this portion of his training, but it still has to be done, and Yuuri’s kept him waiting all morning. Victor’s polished his gear, taken his horse on a spirited gallop around the field, and composed two new songs in his head, and still no sign of Yuuri. 

The after-effects of the duel and subsequent vigil must be lingering. Victor’s cousin departed two days ago, probably still half-asleep on his horse after the night vigil in the godswood, but determined to return to Kings Landing immediately. His rout was thorough, especially the coals of fire Yuuri heaped on his head by insisting he receive a knighthood as well, and Victor wasn’t surprised that he wanted to get away and lick his wounds. He’s curious to see what Yuri will be like in a few months’ time, when they meet at the Harrenhal tourney. 

Yuuri’s behavior, he understands less well. He was so shining and open in the yard after he’d won the duel, cleverly taking advantage of the weakness in Yuri’s over-complicated attack and adding his own advantages of height and stamina, and then he’d asked for what he wanted so confidently that Victor was stunned. A knighthood for himself and for his defeated foe, and a ceremony in the godswood instead of the chapel of the Seven as Victor expected. Yuuri seemed new and changed, finally surmounting whatever mental obstacles had kept him back before.

But after Yuri left, he withdrew into himself again, seemingly exhausted by the last few days. Victor allowed him a day of rest, which Yuuri spent closeted in his room and ignoring Victor’s efforts to draw him out. He agreed to meet this morning for jousting practice, but now the sun is high in the sky and Victor is still alone in the field.

He wishes he understood Yuuri better. The strange whiplash tension, the way Yuuri’s outspoken one moment and shy the next, always watching Victor with that hungry intensity in his gaze but rarely speaking his mind. Victor wants to help him as best he can, but he’s never sure where to begin. He sees so much promise in Yuuri, such a glorious future ahead, but at the same time it feels as though he has to convince Yuuri of that fact. He’s never met anyone with such great ambition and little confidence.

Again and again, he remembers Yuuri on that banquet night last year, so laughing and bold it had Victor himself blushing in the face of it. He doesn’t know where that young man has gone, or how to bring him back, only that it’s part of the promise hidden in Yuuri’s eyes.

At last he sees Yuuri’s black horse, coming up the path from the castle. Yuuri looks anxious, his dark hair unbrushed and clothing askew, and Victor imagines he must have only just awakened. He pulls his horse up short in front of Victor and slides from the saddle, still looking wide-eyed and harried, then bends over into a deep, apologetic bow. 

“The sun finally got bright enough to wake you, eh?” Victor asks, with a laugh.

“I’m sorry, Your Highness,” Yuuri mutters to the ground, still bowing.

Victor frowns. He’d thought they were past the formal title nonsense. “Well, I’m pleased that you slept if you needed the rest. But today, let’s work, yes?”

“Of course,” Yuuri says, still speaking to the ground. 

He’s just as distant and skittish as they put on their gear and mount up. If he were a horse, Victor would put a bag over his head and take the lead himself, but that’s probably not likely to work well in this situation, he reflects with a sigh. Being a training master is more difficult and delicate than he supposed.

Ser Yakov would be glad to hear that, he knows, once he stopped laughing. Victor considers, for a moment, sending a raven to ask him for advice, but that probably go over as well as putting blinkers on Yuuri.

They’re facing each other across the field now, lances ready, and Victor pulls his mind back to the task at hand. “Advance!” he calls out, and they charge at one another. 

Victor unhorses Yuuri in three successive passes before he calls a halt. Yuuri’s covered in grass and dirt, hair even wilder than before, and he's grimacing, like he’s bruised somewhere on his seat. He holds the reins of his horse tightly, keeping it close, and squints up at Victor in the sunlight.

“I can go again,” he says, clearly meaning anything but. His face is determined, though, and Victor likes to see it.

Victor’s white stallion rears a little and he pulls it up, going short on the reins. “Ser Yuuri,” he says, and he smiles at the way Yuuri colors when he says that, the title still new and fresh to him. “Your mind seems…elsewhere this morning. I don’t want to make you black and blue for no reason. Is something bothering you?”

There’s a pause before Yuuri shakes his head. “No,” he says. “Let’s go again.”

This time he keeps his seat for four passes before Victor knocks him off. Yuuri springs up from the ground, seizing the reins of his horse as it passes by, and re-mounts. “Again,” he says.

“Shorten up on your lance,” Victor says. “You nearly had me that time, if you’d had better leverage.”

It takes several more falls, but when the sun is starting to sink towards the western hills, falling below the zenith, Yuuri finally manages to unseat Victor. It’s startling, the impact of the lance against his chest and then the fall, even though the turf is soft. Victor lies there a minute, blinking and getting his breath back, staring foolishly up at the wooly white clouds moving across the deep blue sky.

He’s brought back to earth by the sound and feel of footsteps, and then Yuuri kneeling beside him, a hand on Victor’s chest and a frantic note in his voice.

“Your Highness! I’m sorry — are you all right?”

Victor coughs once, and starts to get up, putting an elbow underneath himself. Yuuri helps him to a sitting position and then leans away, like he’s shy of being too close.

“That’s the first unhorsing I’ve had in years,” Victor says, still coughing. “Forgive me if I’m a little slow to rise.”

Yuuri’s still wide-eyed. “I’m sorry, I — ”

“Knocked your training master to the ground in jousting practice? You’d be a terrible student if you hadn’t,” Victor laughs. “I was starting to worry you wouldn’t manage it on the first day.”

He can tell Yuuri’s starting to calm down, shoulders relaxing. “It’s only because I got in under your guard.”

“Exactly as you’re supposed to,” Victor says. “What else do you think we’ve been out here all day for?”

Yuuri smiles, at last; a quick, tight, fleeting thing that still lights up his face in a way Victor can’t forget. “Yes. Sorry.”

“And I thought I told you to drop the title when we’re in private,” Victor says. He could drop it in public, too, for all Victor cares, but he doesn’t think Yuuri would do it.

A ghost of that smile flickers to life on Yuuri’s face again, and there’s something in his eyes that Victor likes too, shy but teasing. “You used my title yourself, a while back. You’d better practice what you preach, Your Highness.”

Victor’s mouth drops open, and then he laughs, heartily. “All right. We’ll both try to remember.”

Yuuri gets to his feet and extends a hand. “Let me help you up,” and then adds, “Victor,” softly. He flushes like when Victor called him Ser Yuuri, but it’s entirely different now.

Victor takes Yuuri’s offered hand, and lets him pull him to a standing position. Yuuri doesn’t step back, looking up at Victor like he wants to say something else. The teasing air of a moment ago is gone, and Victor’s heart beats a little faster, being near to Yuuri like this. He waits, but Yuuri doesn’t say anything, and finally Victor asks, a little breathless, “Yes?”

He sees Yuuri start, like he was lost in thought. “Sorry,” he says, and reaches up to pluck at Victor’s temple. “You have — uh, in your hair.” 

Yuuri brings his hand back down, a clump of grass between his fingers. Victor smiles, reaching up to brush away whatever’s left. “Thanks. Though I hope you didn’t pull out any hair with that; it's getting thin as it is.”

“Oh no!” Yuuri says, looking horrified and embarrassed. “It’s not — I didn’t mean — ” He takes two big steps back, turning over his shoulder to look for his horse. “Let’s go again.”

“Again?” Victor groans. He’s sore all over, both from the fall and the hard exercise of the day, but he’s starting to suspect that Yuuri’s stamina is superior to his. “I think I’d prefer a long soak in your hot springs.”

“Of course,” Yuuri says, quickly, nodding his head. Victor frowns at him, but doesn’t say anything.

He thinks it over as they mount up and ride back to the stables, then make their way into the godswood with towels and fresh clothes in hand, along with a small lantern. The sun is just starting to set behind the trees, filling the branches with a ruddy glow, as they strip off by the springs and ease into the steaming water. Yuuri sighs loudly, sinking in up to his neck, and Victor looks over to see a peaceful expression spread over his face, more relaxed than he’s been all day. 

“Were you like this with your training master in Dorne?” Victor asks. “So quick and obedient?”

He feels a slight pang of regret as soon as he finishes speaking. Yuuri’s shoulders go hunched and tense again and and he reaches up to hold the back of his neck, a habit he has when he’s feeling awkward, Victor’s noticed. 

“Er, yes?” Yuuri says. “Ser Celestino was a successful tourney competitor in his day, and he’s trained several champions. I always thought he knew what was best for me.”

“But you left his training,” Victor points out, raising an eyebrow.

Yuuri flushes, looking down. “I left Dorne for many reasons.”

“And you always followed your training program to the letter?”

Yuuri looks back up, pressing his lips together, determined. Victor likes him like this, when he’s decided to be brave. “Once, I — suggested an addition. Ser Celestino was uncertain of its value, so I let it go.” At Victor’s questioning look, he sighs. “Katana. I wanted to practice with Prince Phichit, my foster brother.”

“Ah!” Victor says, and claps his hands together joyfully. “Well, here’s one of the many ways, I’m certain, in which I differ from Ser Celestino. I think katana practice is an excellent idea.”

“Really?” Yuuri says. 

Victor nods, letting his eyelids lower as he smiles. He reaches out to take hold of Yuuri’s hand, pulling it across the surface of the water. Yuuri’s eyes go wide, but he doesn’t resist. 

“Do you know why I came north to find you?” Victor asks, his voice low. He strokes the back of Yuuri’s hand with his thumb.

Yuuri shakes his head, looking like he can’t speak. He must be remembering the banquet, the intimate closeness of their dance. Victor wants to surprise him, show that he respects his swordsmanship just as much.

“The day we faced each other in Highgarden,” Victor says. “When you very nearly overcame my attack. How did you do that?”

“I — ” Yuuri stutters, breathy. “I’m not sure. It happened so fast.”

Victor smiles again. “You have the instincts of a first class swordsman, whether or not you listen to them. But they’re a fencer’s instincts, carried out with a broadsword.”

Yuuri’s still staring at him, frowning now like he isn’t following. Victor grasps his hand more tightly and lifts it, flexing Yuuri’s arm. 

“You’ve got both strength and grace,” he says. “My task is to bring the two in harmony. I’m uniquely suited to it, don’t you think?”

“I — yes, Your Highness,” Yuuri says, nodding. He keeps staring, like Victor’s some strange apparition, here in these darkening woods. He’s lamplit himself and more beautiful, Victor thinks, than he knows or realizes. There’s some eldritch magic about him, with his fine, delicate profile and dark hair, but he’s eternally withdrawing and Victor can tell he wants to do so now. A true spirit of the woods, Victor thinks wryly.

He wishes he could press the moment, the two of them in the wooded spring, held safe in this little circle of heat and light, but he can sense the mood has changed. He drops Yuuri’s hand, giving him one more smile, and leans back against the bank behind him. 

“Tomorrow,” Victor says, closing his eyes. “Bring your maestra. Tell her she’ll have a new student in the art of the katana.”

*****

Victor misjudged, somehow. He thought returning to the katana would please Yuuri, giving him new confidence and putting him on familiar ground. Yuuri’s certainly more skilled at it than Victor, though he’s learning fast, but that knowledge doesn’t seem to have soothed Yuuri at all. 

Instead, Victor’s hardly seen a glimpse of Yuuri outside of their training in the last week. Every time he turns his head it seems like Yuuri’s disappearing down a hallway or around a corner, or else vanishing into the woods somewhere around the castle. Direct addresses are no better; whenever he invites Yuuri to break their fast together or take a ride, Yuuri just shakes his head and turns away. 

Yuuri won’t face him in a katana duel either. They’ve been practicing separately, Victor taking instruction from Maestra Minako while Yuuri works alone, somewhere else. Yuuri muttered something about it not being fair until Victor had had more experience, but Victor’s become well enough acquainted with him to see through such a transparent lie. There’s something wrong with Yuuri, but Victor knows better than to force it. Yuuri will speak to him on his own time, in his own way. 

In the meantime, Victor’s learned just enough of the katana to see how far he has to go. Maestra Minako smirks at him at the end of the first week, as he leans over with his hands on his knees, panting hard.

“I never thought I’d defeat a prince,” she says, whipping her sword through another few arcs in the air. “You’re good,” she adds, charitably. “I see why Yuuri’s looked up to you for so long. I think you might become a master in, oh, less than two years.”

Victor straightens up, squinting at her. “And how did a maestra become a master in the art of katana?”

She points her sword straight at him. “Wouldn't you like to know?” she asks, and sheathes her sword.

Victor bathes alone in the spring that evening, and goes to bed thinking of ways to bridge this strange, sudden gap between himself and his student. That’s not all Yuuri is to him, and he suspects that’s part of the problem, but it seems best to tackle the issue from the teaching angle first. He’s not a prince here, or anything to Yuuri yet besides a training master, and an inexperienced one at that.

When Victor rises early the next morning, Yuuri isn’t in his room. Victor touches the shoulder of a passing serving woman, carrying a load of linens down the hall. 

“Have you seen Ser Stark this morning?” he asks.

The woman grins, her face crinkling up. She’s at least as old as Victor’s favorite nanny, now retired comfortably back home. “Master Yuuri is probably up on the roof of the rookery,” she says. “Ever since he was a child, he’s been climbing those roofs. Drove his father to distraction.”

“And his mother, I’m sure,” Victor says.

The woman shakes her head, still grinning. “She only laughed. Master Yuuri never fell.” She frowns for a moment and bobs her head. “Ser Stark, that is, Your Highness.”

Victor can tell this is about to be another of those moments that fades into awkwardness, as someone remembers his title and position, and he reaches out to touch her shoulder again, smiling warmly.

“Thank you,” he says. “Can you point me in the right direction?”

He’d forgotten about the long, winding staircase to the rookery, and his legs and lungs are burning by the top of his climb. The woman told him that Yuuri climbs up here from another building, then leaps across, but Victor has no intention of breaking his neck on the slate roofs of Winterfell. Instead he crosses the room, stepping carefully over the sawdust covered floor and passing the cages full of cawing messenger ravens, and goes to the big open window on the other side.

He can see all of the keep and castle grounds from up here, and out into the fields and rolling foothills beyond, darkened by forest and free-standing rocks. The window looks south, towards the rest of Westeros, and Victor takes a moment to think of his home far away and out of sight, the bustling stinking city of King’s Landing and its looming Red Keep above the river. He takes a deep breath of the clean, fresh air and then turns and grasps the top of the window frame, leaning back and looking above. If he cranes his neck back he can just see Yuuri, crouched near the edge of the roof.

“Good morning,” Victor says.

He sees Yuuri startle, and for an awful moment envisions him pitching straight forward, to the cobbles of the yard below. But Yuuri’s footing is secure, and he merely grips the ridge pole of the roof tighter with his free hand, looking down at Victor. 

“How did you find me?” he asks, frowning.

“Yuuri,” Victor chides. “In Winterfell, someone always knows where all of the Starks are.”

Yuuri smiles, pressing his lips together, and looks up, his expression distant as he gazes over the lands Victor was just studying. Victor wonders what he’s thinking about. 

“Can I come up?” Victor asks.

Yuuri looks back at him. “Are you a good climber?”

“Not really,” Victor says. 

Yuuri sighs, shifting. “I’ll come down.”

It’s a little unnerving, watching him slide down the roof tiles and then swing himself down, grasping the edge of the roof and dangling for one heart-stopping moment before he gets a foot on the window sill. Victor has to stop himself from reaching out, gathering Yuuri to safety and solid ground. Yuuri seems to like it up here, free for once of doubts and fears.

“Sit,” Victor says, gesturing to the stone ledge. “We’ll meet in the middle.”

He climbs out too, fingers tight on the stones framing the window as he hangs both feet over the edge and sits down. There’s no reason to think he’d fall but looking down still makes him dizzy, like the ground is rushing up at him, tempting him to lean over. He looks at Yuuri instead.

Yuuri still has that distant expression, gazing out at the dawn-lightened world. A raven flies by but doesn’t descend into the tower, and Victor’s surprised to see a flock of black-winged seagulls flying past in the other direction. 

“Gulls in the heart of the forest?” Victor asks.

“Going south, to White Harbor,” Yuuri says. “Sometimes they come up the river.”

“There are gulls at home, too,” Victor says. “The air’s full of them, fighting over fishers’ scraps and the midden heaps. I think they’re in a constant state of war.”

“Mm,” Yuuri says. “There were gulls in Dorne, too. Happy and well-fed.”

“Is that how you were in Dorne?” Victor asks. “Happy and well-fed?”

Yuuri smiles, as distant as his eyes. “Extremely well-fed,” he says. “Happy, sometimes.”

He lets a silence fall, and Victor doesn’t try to fill it. 

“The Dornish are — different,” Yuuri says at last, low. “They say what they’re thinking. Or, no — they say what they want you to think they’re thinking, but then they’re thinking something else entirely. Does that make sense?”

“I think so,” Victor says, with a soft laugh. 

“It was like a game of cyvasse,” Yuuri says, still staring forward. “Nothing really meant anything. And they always wanted me to talk more, and be clever. I was just the stupid clumsy northerner who didn’t know the rules.”

“Do you really think that’s what they all thought?” Victor asks, gently.

Yuuri sighs, rolling his head between his shoulders. “Phichit was a true friend. I was, er, close to some others. His family was kind. I just didn’t know how to play the game, so I didn’t play at all.”

Now it’s Victor who sighs. “Would you like a mentor in court politics? I can be that for you.”

Yuuri shakes his head. “No. Gods, no.”

“What should I be to you then, a friend? A brother?”

Yuuri shakes his head again, and Victor’s seized with a wicked impulse to tease him, try to snap him out of the gloomy miasma he’s been in. 

“You must be looking for a lover, then,” Victor says, lightly. 

This time when Yuuri startles Victor really is frightened he’ll tumble off the roof. Yuuri recovers himself just barely, seizing the stone wall behind him, and uses it to pull himself away, turning to Victor with an unflatteringly horrified expression.

“No, Your Highness!” Yuuri says, shocked. He shakes his head. “Sorry — Victor. I would never! I just — ”

He trails off, still staring wide eyed at Victor, and then draws what seems to be a steadying breath. “It's an honor to train with you. You're the crown prince. All I ask is that you be patient with me. I know I'm not the easiest student.” He huffs out a soft laugh. “I promise I'll give you my best.”

“I promise to try harder too,” Victor says, feeling solemn now. The moment seems important, a turning point in their relationship, and the urge to tease him is gone. Yuuri’s never opened up this much before. “But you'll have to really give me your best, Yuuri.”

“I will,” Yuuri says. He shifts, settling back to where he was sitting before, closer to Victor. He turns partway, reaching out with his right hand, and Victor lifts his own to meet him in a firm handshake. 

Yuuri smiles, faintly, and turns to look out at the vista again, swinging his legs slightly. Victor studies him for a moment, and then turns his gaze to the horizon as well.

He must regret that night at the tourney banquet, months ago. Victor can’t read the situation as anything else. Yuuri’s never shown any of the joy or warmth Victor expected as his reception, only a kind of anxious wariness, an obeisant yet resentful gratitude. At first Victor thought it was only the surprise of his arrival, Yuuri shocked into poor manners, but he’s come to think perhaps Yuuri never really meant the invitation at all. 

But they seem to be finding a middle ground at last. He knows Yuuri wants to win this tourney, and even more than that, to make a good showing. Yuuri has a lot to prove. And Victor feels like he’s found what he longed for, a new challenge as well as an escape from the strain of court life and court politics. Everything else can wait, or be put aside. 

It all makes sense, but Victor’s heart still aches as he steals another sidelong glance at Yuuri. The morning light illuminates his profile, and his large amber eyes are lifted and wondering, gazing into the distance. There’s something so fine about him, steady and earnest and true, like a drink of clear water from the forest pool. Victor can’t help yearning towards him, and all the possibilities of what might be.

*****

Training goes well for both of them, after that. In the mornings they practice the joust, riding at each other in the field until they’re both sore from falls and hard contact. It’s the minor event, but only the top finishers make it onto the sword round and Victor doesn't want Yuuri to miss his place. Gradually they switch to full plate armor, riding each other down at full speed, the world narrowed to the eye slits of a helm, and sometimes it’s strange to think Victor won’t be doing this himself this tourney season. He wonders what it will be like, seeing his old opponents from another vantage point, no longer one of them.

In the afternoons they practice the katana. Maestra Minako has gotten Yuuri to agree to train in the same yard, at least, so she can tutor both of them without “running half the length of Winterfell after you stubborn fools.” Victor is coming on fast enough that she’s grudgingly admitted he might become a master within the year, though she’s swatted him with enough corrections to leave him sore in the few places untouched by jousting. 

When he rests, he watches Yuuri. Twisting, slicing, moving beautifully in a shadow dance far more graceful than that with the broadsword. Soon enough they’ll have to switch back, accustoming him to the weight and movement of the heavier sword, but for now Victor just admires his skill. Victor knows he’s graceful and quick himself, and more importantly so is his younger cousin, but Yuuri’s talent seems to come from somewhere within him, like he’s a slender young tree in the woods, or a swan gliding overhead. Victor thinks of that old black and silver tabard, formerly a reminder of his punishment and shame, and smiles at the idea of its new owner.

“You should take on a new tourney name,” Victor says after dinner one night, taking a sip of hot spiced wine. The pleasures of the north are many.

“Hmm?” Yuuri says, without lifting his head. They’re seated near the fire, reclining comfortably, and he’s paging through a new book that came with a shipment from Oldtown today.

“A name for the master of ceremonies to announce you with,” Victor says. “Did you have one before?”

Yuuri shakes his head no, still looking down. “I wasn’t even knighted, remember.”

“And now you can be Ser Yuuri, the Winter Swan,” Victor says, with satisfaction.

Now Yuuri does look up, a slight frown creasing his forehead. “Did you mean for me to keep your tabard?”

“Of course!” Victor says. “You won your first victory of the year in it, so it must be good luck for you. I’m glad it is for someone.”

“You won enough victories in it yourself,” Yuuri points out, quirking a smile.

Victor makes a face. “And infuriated my father every time,” he says. “No, the luck is all yours.”

“It’s strange,” Yuuri says, slowly. “You say ‘my father’ and I think of him like any other man, until I remember you’re talking about the king.”

“He’s not so different from any other man,” Victor says, though he has the uneasy sensation of telling a falsehood. Aerys has a bright, sharp fire to him, and the undeniable aura of royal power. “He likes eel pie, and his feet stink when he takes off his boots.”

Yuuri laughs. “If you were anyone but the king’s son, I think you’d be hanged for treason for saying that.”

“Besides,” Victor says. “You’re the son of the Lady of the North yourself. That’s not so different from being a prince.”

“Oh,” says Yuuri, reddening slightly. He looks back down at his book. “There are seven great houses, though. Being the younger son of one is nothing special.”

Victor looks at Yuuri, sliding down in his chair now and bringing his book up to his face. He thinks _nothing special_ , and about the way Yuuri was swinging his katana today, fierce and beautiful. There’s some disconnect here, some wrong-footed gap that needs patching, but it can’t all be done tonight.

“Well,” Victor says. “You’ll have your chance against some of those other sons soon enough.”

Yuuri’s eyes flash up, over the top of his book, and then he looks down again, pressing his lips together. “Mm,” is all he says. 

They continue their parallel sword practice, until the night Victor is awakened by a rapping at his door, just before it swings open. 

He sits up immediately, reaching for the dagger at his bedside. Aerys trained him well against the possibility of assassins, setting hired men on him in the middle of the night since he was hardly more than a boy. Victor can recall being dragged from his sleep with his heart pounding, fighting for his life, and his father’s dry, disappointed voice coming from across the room — _Too slow. You’re already dead._

He should have had a guard posted, he thinks, but he was lulled into complacency by the remoteness of Winterfell and the friendliness of its people. Still, he isn’t that frightened boy anymore. Victor’s already armed and alert, one foot out of bed ready to spring into an attack, when he catches sight of the face coming across the room towards him, illuminated by lamplight. _Yuuri_. 

Victor lets out a shaky sigh, his shoulders dropping and tremors going through him, his body tingling with both fear and relief. “Yuuri,” he says, shaking his head. “You shouldn’t startle me like that.” He indicates the jeweled dagger in his hand, set with rubies but its blade no less sharp for the decoration. “You shouldn’t startle _anyone_ like that.”

Yuuri barely spares a glance for the knife that could have opened his throat a moment ago. “I’m sorry! But I was lying awake, and then I had to tell you — I’m think I’m ready. At last.”

“Oh?” Victor says, leaning back against the carved headboard and raising his eyebrows. “Ready for what?”

Yuuri sits on the foot of the bed, without being invited. Makkachin shifts, first giving him space and then moving closer, cuddling against his hip. Victor realizes she hasn’t moved since the door opened, and thinks, wryly, that she was more aware than he was of the intruder’s identity. 

The dog lifts her head to lay in Yuuri’s lap and he pets her silky ears, looking down. He takes a deep breath, and then seems to force himself to meet Victor’s eyes. “I’m ready to begin sword training with you. _True_ sword training. I know I’m skilled with the katana, but you aren’t, and anyway I can’t use that in the tourney. Tomorrow — I want to face you in the yard, with broadswords.”

Victor studies Yuuri for a moment. His heart is still pounding, his whole body feeling overstimulated and on edge, prepared for a fight. That’s what Yuuri is offering him, in a sense, and in another sense he’s surrendering, allowing Victor in fully for the first time. 

He begins to ask Yuuri if he’s truly ready, if this isn’t just a whim of the late hour, but stops himself. Yuuri doesn’t need to be second-guessed, his decisions treated as revocable or lightly made. What he needs most is for someone to trust him, believe in him.

Victor can do that. “All right,” he says. “Tomorrow. Not too early, if you don’t mind? Since you’ve shortened my hours of rest already.”

He doesn’t need the lamplight to know Yuuri is flushing. “Sorry,” Yuuri says, low and guilty. 

Victor waves his hand, then realizes he’s still clutching the dagger. Now he’s the one feeling embarrassed and unsettled as he lays it back on the nightstand, settling himself down in bed. He doesn't like to think what might have happened, if Yuuri hadn't spoken so quickly once he entered the room. Yuuri stands up now, giving him space, and to Victor’s surprise Makkachin jumps off the mattress and follows him. 

“Er,” Yuuri says, looking down at the dog.

“Take her,” Victor says, a touch grumpily. 

Yuuri nods his head, then reaches down to stroke her head. Victor doesn’t miss the tenderness in his eyes. 

“You don’t have a hound of your own, do you?” he asks, followed by a yawn as he pulls the sheets up.

“I did,” Yuuri says, softly. “But he’s gone now.”

Victor’s had Makkachin since he was small, when she was a wriggling ball of silky brown hair, her ears and tail almost as long as her body. Everyone’s said for years now that he should get more hounds, or at least breed her against the day when she’s too old to run by his side, but her legs have never stiffened and her eyes have never dimmed, despite her age. He doesn’t like to think about the day when she’s gone, and part of him believes it will never really come. 

“I’m sorry,” Victor says. It could be a sweet moment, with more to be said, but he can’t help another jaw-cracking yawn as waves of sleepiness overtake him. 

“Thank you,” Yuuri says. He hesitates a moment more, and then adds, “I’ll see you in the yard tomorrow.”

Victor closes his eyes, while Yuuri closes the door. He should feel bereft, alone without his dog, or anxious about tomorrow, the first and greatest test of his skill as a trainer. Instead there’s a new kind of warmth in his chest, thinking of Yuuri and Makkachin together tonight, and tomorrow the true beginning of their training. Victor smiles, and falls asleep easily.

*****

No one is in the yard when they enter after breakfast the next day. Victor doesn’t know if it’s serendipity or Yuuri’s planning, but this seems like the best way for a fresh start. They go into the armory, fetching their practice swords, which feel so much heavier than the light blades they’ve been using with the maestra. Yuuri ducks into the antechamber for a moment, bowing towards the ancient armor on display, before he comes back out again to follow Victor outside.

They meet in the middle, swords raised. Yuuri bows again, and Victor does too. Here they aren’t prince and noble, or even knights; he’s the master and Yuuri the student, but beyond that they’re merely combatants on the field, facing each other openly and honestly.

Yuuri keeps his head tilted down, though, eyelids lowered. “I wanted to say — thank you,” he says, quietly. “And to please teach me everything you can. I’m ready to learn.”

Victor smiles. “ _Everything_ might take a while,” he says. “Let’s start with what you know.”

He touches Yuuri’s sword with his, and they begin.

They haven’t fought in earnest before. When Victor was trying to prepare him for the duel with his cousin, Yuuri kept stopping just as they began, laughing and awkward. Victor didn’t know if it was hesitance to take himself seriously, or just nervousness about facing a prince, but whatever it was is gone now, subsumed in Yuuri’s fierce expression, his focused determination. 

They clash, taking points from each other, striking hard and giving no quarter. Victor doesn’t take his eyes off Yuuri, circling him with his feet shuffling in the dirt before he darts in to take another thrust at Victor’s shoulder. Victor blocks it easily with his buckler, but he isn’t prepared for the counter strike, slashing across his knees. It tangles his legs up in Yuuri’s blade, and then Yuuri’s striking up and beneath Victor’s shield, knocking his arm away. Yuuri follows that with an unexpected body blow, chest to chest, the impact of it forcing Victor back a step so he almost falls. 

Victor laughs. 

He gathers himself, coming back with a complicated series of attacks that drive Yuuri close to the wall. Yuuri is glaring so fiercely he’s almost cross-eyed, parrying the strikes with no weakness to his arm, and finally brings up his shield arm to catch one blow full on his buckler while he attempts to jab under Victor’s guard. Victor parries it, steel to steel, then takes a panting step back, looking at Yuuri with a grin.

“The true Ser Stark,” Victor says, breathless. “Welcome.”

Yuuri looks back at him, sweat glistening on his forehead, and a slow, matching smile spreads across his face. “Just wait,” he says.


	5. Five - Yuuri

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter begins the divergence from the strict YOI canon timeline! (The chapters are also getting longer from here on out.) And things get a little more interesting by the end...
> 
> Deep thanks to someitems for beta, and for talking over this chapter and the story in depth with me.

“You need a squire,” Victor says, tugging on a leather strap.

Yuuri stands still as Victor buckles him into his armor, the process more complicated now they’ve switched from padded practice gear to full plate. There are so many pieces, meant to protect each part of his body; breastplate and gorget, greave and vambrace, guards and helm. It takes a long time to get everything in place, and then of course Yuuri has to do the same for Victor.

Sometimes Yuuko helps, or Takeshi, if they’re about. Maestra Minako once or twice, grumbling. But nobody fits Yuuri’s armor to his body like Victor, with his slender, capable hands. 

“You do it so well, though,” Yuuri says, daring to tease. 

This is a thing he does now, tease Prince Victor Targaryen, heir to the Iron Throne of Westeros. Champion of countless tourneys, and Yuuri’s idol since he was twelve years old. Victor just smiles in return, his blue eyes wry and exasperated, and keeps working at the buckle. 

“A squire does more than outfit you for battle, you know that,” Victor says, moving behind him. “You need everything kept in good working order. Your gear, your tack, your weapons. Someone to fetch and carry for you at the tourney, as well. I wouldn’t mind doing it, but my presence might, ah, hamper things.”

Yuuri imagines the crown prince lining up to draw a flagon of ale for him, and nods his head ruefully. “I suppose,” he says. “I just don’t know — ”

“I can do it!” comes a higher, eager voice, from the other side of the yard.

Yuuri turns to see Kenjirou Minami, son of the castle’s bailiff, and now a guardsman in training. He knows the boy has been practicing the sword with Takeshi, and they’ve sparred a few times in the yard since Yuuri came home. Kenjirou has promise, but Yuuri’s never really considered him as a serious swordsman before, and certainly not as a squire in training to become a knight.

“Er,” Yuuri says, craning back to look at Victor. “I don’t really — ”

“You need someone to outfit you and carry your things!” Kenjirou says. “I can do that.”

“Have you served before?” Yuuri asks, dubiously.

“I can learn,” the boy says, without hesitation. “And then someday you can make _me_ a knight!”

An awkward silence hangs in the air. Yuuri hopes Victor will step forward to explain why they can’t take Kenjirou all the way to Harrenhal with them, where he’ll certainly be lost in all the rough, energetic bustle of a major tourney, but Victor says nothing, still fastening Yuuri’s armor behind him.

“I don’t know if we have time to teach you,” Yuuri says, desperately.

Now Victor does say something, quiet and serious in his ear. “Yuuri. A word.” 

Yuuri turns his head, frowning. “Yes?”

Victor looks to the sky, mildly exasperated, and pulls him a few steps back into the armory. From the far chamber, there’s the sound of Yuuko knocking dents out of armor with heavy, clanging thuds of her mallet. 

“We can’t take him to Harrenhal,” Yuuri says, as soon as they're inside. “I can’t look after him, and he’s never done any serving work before. We’d have to teach him _everything_.”

Victor sighs, inclining his head towards Yuuri and speaking earnestly. “You know, taking on a squire isn’t just about having a servant,” he says. “It’s bringing someone younger under your tutelage, creating a relationship, assuming responsibility. You train him the way you were taught, and one day the boy becomes a knight, joining the long line that you’re a part of. You’ll fight at each other’s side in battle, perhaps, and he’ll take on a squire of his own, carrying on the tradition.”

Yuuri studies Victor, frowning, his mouth partway open as he thinks of what to say. His own path to knighthood wasn’t like this, with his mixed training from Takeshi’s father and Ser Celestino, and the title coming from Victor himself. He can’t help wondering if Victor sees him as part of _his line_ now — and if Victor thinks of him as anything other than a just-jumped up squire.

“Your cousin,” Yuuri says at last. “Do you still have a responsibility to him, now that he’s a knight?”

Victor sighs, running a hand through his long, loose hair, brushing it back. “I suppose so. Listen, that boy is quick and halfway trained already. I think he’s the ideal squire for you, even if he is a little rough around the edges. Maybe that’s better. Who is he?”

“His father is the Winterfell bailiff. His mother’s a Reed, though, from the southern marshlands.”

“Perfect,” Victor says. “Noble enough to pass muster, not so much that he’ll give you trouble. Let’s go tell him.”

Kenjirou’s taking hacks with his wooden practice sword when they come back out into the yard, his blonde hair fluffy and wild, with that one red streak in front. He turns when they approach, grinning broadly. 

“Er,” Yuuri says. He feels like he should be using formal language, but he can’t think of the words now. As a Stark, he was never anyone else’s squire. “Please be my squire, Kenjirou. If that’s what you want to do.”

Somehow Kenjirou’s face lights up even more, his grin impossibly wider. “Of course I do! And I can come to the tourney at Harrenhal?”

Yuuri sighs. “Yes.”

Kenjirou lets out a whoop, saluting the air with his sword. “At last! What should I do first?”

Victor steps forward, beckoning. “Come finish fastening Ser Stark’s armor, for a start.”

*****

Their departure for the tourney is in less than a week, and preparations have reached a fever pitch. When Yuuri left for Dorne five years ago it seemed to turn the castle upside down, but that was nothing compared to what’s being assembled now. Clothing, gear, food, supplies for camping when the gap between taverns is too wide for their slow-moving party to manage in a day. Yuuri’s never slept beside the road before, always traveling on a fleet horse with his baggage far behind, and it’s both thrilling and unsettling to imagine.

“Won’t it be dangerous?” Yuuri’s father asks over supper one night. “Some of the lands between here and Harrenhal are quite wild. Aren’t bandits a danger?”

“Always!” Victor says, cheerfully. “At least I’m not taking _many_ jewels.”

Everyone at the high table laughs, but Yuuri gives Victor a sidelong glance, knowing he’s serious. The prince cares deeply for his appearance, Yuuri’s learned.

“And we’ll only have ourselves and a few servants to protect, rather than an entire royal wagon train,” Victor adds.

“And me,” Maestra Minako says, unexpectedly. 

Yuuri turns his head, craning down the table. “You’re coming?”

“We both are,” he’s shocked to hear Mari say. 

Now Yuuri whips his head back to gape at his sister. “What?”

“Well, I’m finally going to see my student compete,” Maestra Minako says. 

“And I’m finally going to see a little of Westeros,” Mari says, calmly cutting up her meat. She puts a bite in her mouth, chewing. “Also, I promised Ser Yuri.” At Yuuri’s enquiring frown, she swallows and clarifies, “The prince’s cousin.”

“You’re — friends?” Yuuri asks in confusion.

She shrugs. “We’ve sent a few ravens back and forth. He’s been working hard.”

Yuuri just shakes his head and turns away, giving in. His sister was always complicated, with so much going on beneath the surface that he never saw. If she wants to travel a hundred miles to a tourney when she doesn’t even care about jousting or swordfighting, it’s her decision.

“I’m glad you’re coming,” he says to Maestra Minako, sincerely. “If you don’t think the trip will be too much.”

She snorts. “I’m not that old. I can ride in a wheelhouse, at least.”

Now Yuuri’s glance darts to Victor. He’s smiling faintly, eyes dancing with suppressed amusement. “Wheelhouse?”

“We’ll afford every comfort to your sister and your teacher,” Victor says, in a solemn voice that belies his laughing eyes. “I don't think either of them is ready to sit a horse for twenty miles a day. I’m sure something can be found.”

Yuuri looks back at his own neglected meal at last. The castle is most likely to have carts and wagons, not the luxurious wheelhouses he’s seen in the south. He’s imagining his sister, heir to Winterfell, riding in a yeoman’s cart next to the proud, upright maestra, and shakes his head again.

Royalty has its means and its ways, though. Victor manages to find a suitable cart, and to have it outfitted with sides and a roof, the interior bench cushioned to some degree. It’s scarcely ready in time for the journey south, but on the morning of their departure Victor hands Mari and Maestra Minako up like a footman, smiling wide and gracious.

Yuuri sits astride his stallion, feeling both anxious and excited, like the day he left for Dorne. That horse is long since gone, and this one is finer and more high-spirited, but things are much the same. Early morning fog wraps the high towers of the castle, and his mother and father stand at the gates, waving farewell with mingled pride and resignation in their eyes. Yuuri misses the figure that was at their feet five years ago, though, with a plumed tail and bright eyes, not understanding his master was leaving him for the last time. 

He reaches up and wipes his eyes, surreptitiously. So many things have gone both right and wrong in the years since he left, but it feels like he’ll never truly recover from guilt and remorse of losing Vicchan while he was away from home. The raven reached Sunspear just after he’d left for the Highgarden tourney, and so he received the news from Prince Phichit only when he returned from his humiliating defeat, one final loss that nearly finished him then and there.

But he wasn’t done, Yuuri thinks, straightening up in the saddle. Victor saw something in him, and through these months of training together he hasn’t lost faith. Yuuri knows he still has far to go in his training to be anything approaching Victor, but for the first time since he was a child it seems like he can see his way forward, believe the mountain can be climbed, if only he tries hard enough.

Yuuri looks at the people assembled here at the gates; his parents and the Nishigoris still smiling and waving, his sister and his old teacher in a patched-up cart, even little Kenjirou Minami in a squire’s surcoat, and Prince Victor Targaryen on his fine white horse, attending to some small matter with the baggage cart. All here for him, because of him, drawn together into a happy, surprising web of love and support. 

His life isn’t what he dreamed of, but it’s not what he feared, either. It’s better than he had any right to expect, truly, and Yuuri just hopes he can be worthy of it.

Victor finishes with the baggage and turns, catching Yuuri’s eye. He smiles, tossing his long silver braid over his shoulder. “Forward?” he asks.

Yuuri nods. “Forward.”

*****

The ride south is more exhilarating but no less dull than the ride north was, months ago. Then Yuuri was returning home in shame and defeat, and now he’s setting out with lofty ambitions, but the barrow lands are just as tedious and the taverns along the way just as chill and comfortless. 

Victor alternates between cheerful songs, sometimes strumming his harp, and bitter complaint at the condition of the inns. “Lice again,” he says to Yuuri one morning, when Yuuri comes downstairs and to find Victor sleeping curled up on the wooden settle before the fire in the great room. “Barley soup _again_ ,” Victor sighs at the next tavern, as though dull fare were a greater crime than dirty beds. Yuuri wonders how Victor bore the journey north, both the poor quality of the taverns and having no traveling companion to complain to about it.

They leave the forested plains eventually, descending south to the narrow, boggy marshlands of the Neck. Here there are fewer inns, and they camp for the first time in the teetering grey ruins of Moat Cailin. The Starks took this castle from the Children of the Forest in the war for Westeros almost eight thousand years ago, and used it themselves to defend against the invasion of the Andals several millennia later. Now all that remains are three crumbling towers, and the reminder of glories past.

Victor brings out his harp by the fire that night, as the thick darkness crowds around them. He seems far away as he sings a song surely of his own composition, something about the fall of ancient empires in flame and ash. Yuuri thinks he must be singing of the Doom of Valyria which drove his people west four centuries ago, and he’s reminded suddenly of how foreign Victor truly is. Heir to a line of conquerors who intermarried amongst themselves, almost never mingling with the people of the land they claimed. His silver hair and icy eyes are a reminder of Victor’s lineage, dragonborn even though the last egg of the Targaryens’ fabled companions has long since withered. 

“Did you like the song, Ser Stark?” Victor asks when he finishes. 

That sly, slanted smile is on his face, and Yuuri realizes he must have been staring at Victor, lost in thought. Yuuri shakes his head, blinking, and shifts his gaze to the snapping fire, a different kind of heat rising in his face.

“Yes,” he says, more shortly than he means to sound.

Victor only laughs. “Another, then,” he says, and shifts into a lighter, more familiar ballad.

That night Yuuri lies awake too long, kept wakeful by the shifting canvas of the tent, the rock under his left shoulder, and these burning new thoughts. Victor is a _prince_. His success in the tourneys was his heritage, his skill inborn. It’s foolish to think Yuuri could ever match him even in a single bout, let alone have a career like his. The only hope he has now is because Victor has withdrawn from competition, allowed Yuuri to hoard him like a dragon with its stolen treasure. 

Yuuri grits his teeth. _I must make the theft worth the price._

The next day, they ride deeper into the marshes. Kenjirou comes to ride beside him for a while, full of chatter as always but somehow wistful today.

“My mother’s people are somewhere out there,” Kenjirou says, gesturing at the misty, moss-hung forests. “They took me to Greywater Watch when I was small, but of course I could never find the way on my own.”

“It’s built on a crannog, yes?” Yuuri asks, frowning to recall. “Floating islands?”

“Yes!” Kenjirou says, his face brightening with pleasure. “I’m so glad you remember that! Hardly anyone ever recalls the Reeds.”

“Can’t remember what you can’t find,” grouses a guardsman, riding behind. 

“That’s the genius of it!” Kenjirou says, as if the man had paid a compliment. “It’s never been taken by enemies, because no one can find it without a guide.”

“I don’t think I’ll be leaving the Kingsroad in search of Greywatch Watch,” Yuuri says, lightly. 

“One day I will,” Kenjirou insists. “I’ll see my family again and tell them all about the tourney, and the glory of squiring for my hero Ser Stark, the Winter Swan.”

“ _Hero_?” Yuuri blurts out, before he thinks. “You should find a more fitting hero than _that_.”

Kenjirou turns to him, suddenly red and scowling. “Don’t laugh at me. I know I’m only a guardsman in training but I can dream. Someday I really will be as good a swordsman as you!”

He gathers up his reins and gallops forward, leaving Yuuri in the dust. Yuuri stares after him, perplexed.

Someone rides up near his elbow, and he looks over to see Victor with that dreadful slanted smile again, the one that ties his stomach in knots. Victor always says something that cuts Yuuri right in two when he looks like that.

“Responsibility isn’t always easy,” is all Victor says now, though. “Especially when you have a headstrong squire.”

“How did you train yours?” Yuuri can’t help asking. Victor’s cousin seemed far more difficult than even Kenjirou. 

Victor grins, still with that knife-edge, and looks off into the distance. “Ah, yes, Yuri. He’s only my latest squire, you know. Most of the others were more….obedient.”

“You mean they worshiped you,” Yuuri says, smiling himself now. “They never forgot they were squiring a crown prince.”

Victor shrugs, not denying it. “Obedience has its uses in a squire. So does being headstrong. Sometimes the student knows better than the teacher.”

He turns back to look at Yuuri, and his smile is so sharp but his eyes are soft, like he’s waiting for something, wanting something. 

Yuuri looks back, not knowing quite what to say. Finally he coughs and looks away at the horizon, watching Kenjirou catch up to one of his young friends in the guard. “I should look in on my sister and Maestra Minako.”

He pulls on his reins, letting his horse drop behind, feeling like he’s missed yet another chance but not knowing what else he could have said.

*****

Yuuri grows more wakeful at night as they draw closer to their destination. He sleeps well enough on the lumpy mattresses of taverns, Kenjirou snoring on his pallet on the floor, but on the road he shares a small pavilion with Victor instead, while the smallfolk sleep beneath the stars. Victor snores too, lightly but definitely, and Yuuri has only that and the whistling winds to accompany his too-restless thoughts. 

They practice every morning, in the tavern yards or outside the campsites, their blunted blades ringing in the morning air. Kenjirou has learned how to put on Yuuri’s armor well enough, and each day Yuuri feels himself growing stronger, more skilled under Victor’s tutelage. He can execute moves that eluded him before, seeing the layout of the fight before him and anticipating his opponent’s moves. That his opponent is Victor is no doubt helping him to improve, and he doesn’t even think Victor is taking it easy with him because he only wins half the time at most. Everything he’s dreamed of is right here before him.

And still Yuuri lies awake at night, as they pass through the marshlands and into the plains of the south, waiting for it all to vanish.

It can’t be this easy. He’s spent years struggling to improve, to find his confidence on the battle ground. He knows he’s practiced as many hours as any knight, that he’s quick and skilled, that he can perform the shadow dance with grace and speed. It’s what happens when he steps into the ring that’s defeated him, that sinking sense of being outmatched, overpowered. It always seems like his opponents _want_ it more, and that they have the confidence to take it. 

He worries, tossing and turning in his tangled bedding, that these new-won skills won’t be enough if he can’t perform them when it matters, in the heat of the moment. He remembers so many bouts from before, standing stock-still in the dirt with too much racing through his mind, too many possibilities being discounted immediately, and that helpless dread as his opponent moved swiftly and decisively. He can’t bear the idea of that happening again, after all this.

Most of all, Yuuri can’t bear the thought of disappointing Victor, or showing the world that their time together has been a waste. He’s had the _prince_ training him privately, and to make a poor showing would be unthinkable. Yuuri isn’t sure there’s any corner of Westeros remote enough for him to spend his life after such a humiliation.

He grinds his teeth, imagining it too often. Losing early to someone he knows, like Prince Phichit or young Guang-Hong Tully of Riverrun. Or worse, one of the wandering sellswords or hedge knights always looking to make their fortune or at least easy coin. Soon it’s all he can see when he thinks of the tourney: himself standing frozen and witless on the field, losing his sword to a blow from some enormous dark-helmed knight, or the laughing face of a friend. 

Yuuri’s sleepless nights must show on his face, because finally he catches Victor studying him one morning as they wash and dress, with the bowls of heated water Kenjirou carried in for them. Victor’s pulling on his usual spotless array of clothing easily, lacing and buttoning for himself as if he didn’t grow up in a palace with servants to attend his every whim, but he can’t manage the back of his silver-blue doublet and Yuuri goes to him without a word, taking the scarlet ribbons from his hands and pulling tight.

Victor laughs, softly. “Thank you. I probably should have left this suit of clothing at home — it’s not exactly the thing for weeks of dusty travel.” He runs his hands over the shoulders of his watered-silk doublet, studded with small rubies.

“It looks well on you,” Yuuri mumbles softly. He ties a quick bow and then steps back.

Victor turns, smiling. Yuuri knows he should return it, but his mind is still far away, dwelling on his thoughts from the previous night. His sword hand throbs and he clenches it tight, running through the moves he was thinking of before dawn. If only he could make his body do its own bidding, without having to _think_.

Now Victor’s smile fades. “We’ll reach the Trident soon,” he says. “Harrenhal is only a few days’ ride from there. Do you feel prepared?”

Yuuri blinks at him. “Yes,” he says, after too long a pause. 

“You haven’t been sleeping well,” Victor says. “You should see the circles beneath your eyes.”

“It’s — ” Yuuri begins to say. 

“I know, the inns have been unspeakable,” Victor says, sighing. “And let’s not talk of bedrolls on the ground. You should retire earlier, though! Or perhaps when we take the noon rest. Don’t worry, I’ll look after everything.”

Yuuri looks down at the ground, sighing. It’s not like he could talk with Victor about the doubts creeping into his head, or the tingling, anxious dread he feels when he thinks about the tourney. Victor has never understood any of that. “Thank you,” he says, dully.

He does retire earlier that night, while the rest of the camp is still singing and drinking around the fire, led by Victor as always. He still ends up staring at the roof of the pavilion, new terrible scenarios playing out in his mind. He sees how it will be when they ride into Harrenhal, everyone looking at him, the one the prince set aside his own career to train. Expecting great things of him, spreading tales he’ll have to live up to.

Yuuri doesn’t _feel_ any different. It’s so hard to reconcile himself with this person everyone will imagine him to be. 

The nightmares start, then. Failure, always failure; his sword stuck in its sheath or the ground, moving so slow it’s like he’s underwater. The shadowed face of his opponent, always with piercing light eyes, blue or green. Laughter from the crowd around them, just before his opponent’s sword descends on him, a clean, heavy strike across the back of his neck that wakes Yuuri in a panicked sweat, gasping for breath. 

By the time they reach the Trident, the conjunction of the great rivers of the north and south, he doesn’t think he’s really sleeping at all anymore.

They spend the night at an inn in Lord Harroway’s Town, only mildly cleaner than the inns they’ve stayed in before, but far more packed with people thronging to the tourney. Victor strolls in with his head high, unconcerned, and smiles at the barmaid in the great room before taking the stairs up to the best room in the house. Yuuri helps Kenjirou with the baggage, and then stretches out on the bed to try to get a little rest before supper. 

Kenjirou is too excited for a nap. It’s his first time in any kind of proper town and he’s restless, leaning out the window and trying to make out buildings in the gathering dusk.

“ _Three_ chapels!” he exclaims, hanging over the sill. “And I think there’s a market square, too.”

“It’s the weavers’ market,” Yuuri says, rolling over and pulling the pillow over his head. “They always meet here. Tomorrow you can go look, if you like.”

“ _Can_ I?” Kenjirou says, sounding like poking through baskets of wool and dye is the greatest wish of his heart. 

“Yes,” Yuuri says with a groan. “For now, why don’t you go downstairs?”

He feels guilty that he hasn’t really begun Kenjirou’s training yet, too concerned with his own still. _When we return to Winterfell_ , he tells himself, even though he can hardly imagine being on the other side of all this. Once this tourney is finished, he has no idea what the rest of his life will look like; Winterfell is too far to travel regularly to the tourneys held around the countryside, but he won’t be returning to Dorne, either, and he has no other ties in the south.

 _It won’t matter, if you fail here_ , says a small, cold voice inside him, and Yuuri groans again and clutches the pillow tighter around his ears. 

He does doze off eventually, and when he descends to the great room it’s emptier than before, most of the guests being merchants who retire early before the market tomorrow. Yuuri sees Kenjirou at one of the long tables, talking excitedly with some of his young guardsman friends, and his sister sitting alone at another, paging through a book.

He chooses Mari, and orders a bowl of stew at the bar before he sits down.

She looks up, keeping her finger in her book. It takes her a moment to focus on him, but then she gives him a small smile. 

“Where’s Maestra Minako?” Yuuri asks her. They’ve spent most of the trip together, talking in the wheelhouse or drinking and laughing at supper at night. He’s glad they have each other's friendship.

“Went to bed early with a headache,” Mari says, which means the maestra sampled too much of the tavern’s ale with dinner.

“How’s the soup?” he asks, nodding at the empty wooden bowl at her elbow.

“Tolerable,” Mari says, and looks back down at her book.

This is the first time they’ve been alone together since they left home, and Yuuri suddenly has so many questions for his sister. Why she’s chosen now of all times to explore the world outside, and what she thinks of it. How she imagines her future as Lady of Winterfell; their mother is still relatively young and in good health, but someday the north will be Mari’s to rule. It’s a position she’s been training for all her life, and one she’ll handle well, but she never had the choice about it, like Yuuri chose to become a knight.

“What do you write about to Ser Yuri?” he asks, suddenly. “I mean, the other Yuri.”

Mari blinks and looks up at him again, slowly. She’s always been honest, speaking her mind, but she chooses her words carefully. “He writes to me about his training. His life in King’s Landing. It’s very different to mine.”

“And you?”

She smiles. “The same. Training, life.”

Yuuri wants so much to ask what she knows, if Yuri’s told her anything about his sword training that might help him, but that seems wrong somehow. Like he’s trying to gain an advantage. A thought occurs to him — “Do you talk about me?”

Mari grins now. “He complains about you. I think you gave his pride a wound that will be a long time healing. But in case you’re wondering, no, I haven’t told him anything about your training.” She looks down, turning a page in her book. “And no, I won’t tell you anything about his either.”

Yuuri lets out a sigh, relieved and disappointed at once. “I wouldn’t ask,” he says, belatedly.

His sister only smiles.

The barmaid brings his stew then, with a thick slice of bread and a flagon of ale to accompany it, and Yuuri tucks into his dinner, finding he has more appetite than he thought. The only sound is the snapping of the fire beside them and his spoon scraping the bowl, with the occasional burst of talk or laughter from the other people in the room. Yuuri feels his shoulders relaxing, his body soothed by the food and drink. It’s nice here, in this homely, comfortable inn, and he imagines life as a wool or dye merchant, carrying out his quiet work unobserved. Sometimes he doesn’t know how he ended up on the knight’s path, trying to win success and glory before a crowd, his failures writ large for all to see.

It all comes back to Victor, somehow. Seeing him, being seen by him; _becoming_ him. A foolish daydream, but one Yuuri can’t seem to live without.

“I don’t know why you’re worried,” Mari says, suddenly. “Yuri tells me the oddsmakers in King’s Landing have you as a heavy favorite, with Victor out of the tourney and training you besides.”

Yuuri jolts upright, feeling like she’s dumped a bucket of cold water over him. He takes in a painful breath and blinks hard, looking at her. “Oh,” he manages to say. “Do they?”

Mari’s frowning at him now. “Yes. Is that so strange? I know the Tyrell heir is favored as well, and I think the Baratheon who placed so well at the Oldtown tourney, but you have the advantage. You’re the only one being trained by the prince.”

Yuuri doesn’t answer her, and she shakes her head ruefully, laughing at herself. “Shocked to hear your sister so familiar now with the tourney champions? Yuri’s been schooling me.”

“Good,” Yuuri says. He licks his lips, shaking his head. “I think I should retire early tonight.”

“Good idea,” Mari says, returning to her book once more. “Victor says it’s only a few days more to Harrenhal. Just in time.”

“Yes,” Yuuri says, and escapes the table.

All the rest and ease of the last half hour seem to have evaporated, by the time he reaches his room. He goes to the window, staring out at the lights of the town, candles in windows and lanterns in the streets below. The stars are bright above, and he traces out constellations like he did as a child, lying on the grass in summer with Maestra Minako and his sister. The great dragon prances and coils, keeping watch. 

_You have the advantage._

Hours later, he hears Kenjirou come in, settling himself on the floor and falling asleep easily, but sleep eludes Yuuri until the eastern sky grows pink and light.

*****

They ride south and westwards the next day. Harrenhal lies several days’ ride off the King’s Road, on the northern shore of the great God’s Eye lake. Yuuri remembers the the journey there years ago, when he first saw Victor, and all that’s changed since then.

He rides alone, wrapped in his cloak and his thoughts. He hasn't been able to shake the chill in his heart since last night, the creeping heaviness in his limbs from lack of sleep and something else. A kind of soul-deep exhaustion, the dread of knowing what’s ahead, and all the ways he can disappoint the people watching him, believing in him. It feels like he’s riding to his own trial, and he's already been found guilty

They camp each night, and Yuuri lies on his pallet thinking about Victor on the other side of the pavilion. Wondering how much Victor will regret these months together, if Yuuri fails. Wondering if Victor won’t enter the lists himself after all, once they reach the tourney grounds. 

Victor lets him alone, until the last day of their journey. They can see the lake on the far horizon, but they make camp early instead. “We’ll ride the last distance on the morrow,” Victor says. “Tonight, I want to finish the lay of Jeyne and Ash.” 

He’s been performing it for them for a week now, just a few verses a night, set to a new tune of his own composition and with some additions and alterations to the text as well. Tonight Yuuri keeps finding himself fading out, his stare fixed on the southern horizon, where the lake and tourney fields lie. It seems his fate lies there as well, or his doom. 

The music stops. “Ser Stark’s dozing off again,” Victor says, with a laugh.

“Sorry,” Yuuri says, shaking himself hard. “Perhaps I should go to bed.” 

He gets to his feet, aware that everyone’s eyes are on him. The guardsmen and serving folk, Maestra Minako, his sister. All these people assembled just for him, journeying so far, and the purpose of it all resting on Yuuri’s shoulders, his skill and instinct. Their shared glory dependent on his success.

“You don’t want to hear the ending?” Victor asks. “The happy conclusion for our lovers?” His words are gentle, but his eyes are laughing, like he’s teasing Yuuri. 

Yuuri frowns. “I didn’t think the lay of Jeyne and Ash ended happily. Don’t they sacrifice themselves to end the war between their families?”

Victor smiles, and there’s nothing at all gentle about it. “I changed the ending. I like happy ones better, don’t you?”

Yuuri lets out a soft, startled breath. He blinks. “I should sleep. Good night.”

He washes his face and climbs beneath the blankets of his pallet, heated by the stone Kenjirou left there for him. He can still faintly hear Victor singing outside. He wishes Victor wouldn’t do that, say things like that in front of everyone as though he’s making fun of him. He doesn’t think Victor’s suspected his true feelings, the secret flame he's carried since he was a boy, and that makes it worse somehow. Victor can be serious when he wants, but most of the time he’s light and laughing, everything a jest to him. Yuuri’s never certain that he isn’t one too.

At some point he must fall asleep, because the morning light wakes him, full and bright. He rises, dully, and breaks his fast by the embers of the fire outside, as the camp is taken down around him. Yuuri eats his bread and cheese slowly, his gaze fixed on the southern horizon again, the path unwinding before him. He closes his eyes, and is startled by a hand on his shoulder. 

“Let’s practice in the clearing,” Victor says.

“Oh,” Yuuri says, opening his eyes again. “All right, I’ll find Kenjirou.”

“No need,” Victor says, and Yuuri turns to see him smiling. “We can squire for each other today.”

Victor’s found a clearing some distance from camp, hemmed in by thick trees and far from the road. There’s only birds and sunshine here, waving grass and a small running brook cutting across one corner. Yuuri tips his head back to look at the sky, pale blue with lacy, slow-moving clouds overhead. It’s peaceful and beautiful, and he takes a deep breath of fresh air before bringing down his visor to face Victor, the battle beginning.

His swings today are slow, sluggish. The sleepless weeks are finally taking a toll, and they haven’t practiced at all the last few days. That was Victor’s decision, giving him a break, but now Yuuri wishes he’d kept fresh and sharp. He can’t seem to keep up with Victor’s attacks, always a few seconds too slow to properly parry. Victor is beating him down, sooner rather than later, and Yuuri hardly has the strength to continue lifting his shield to keep him at bay. 

Yuuri tries to break free of his dazed fog, making his own attack. He brings his arm down in an overhand smash against Victor’s shoulder, slowing the flurry of strikes. At least that’s what he means to do; instead Victor snaps his shield up to block Yuuri’s arm, pushing him back three staggering steps.

Yuuri throws his sword down and stands there panting, the sound loud inside his helm. He stares at Victor, feeling like he’s reached a breaking point.

Victor stares back for a long moment before taking off his helmet. He shakes back his long silver hair, then goes still and serious. “Yuuri.”

“I’m fine,” Yuuri says, without thinking.

Victor gives him a look, appraising. “You’re worried about the tourney, I know. You needn’t be.”

Yuuri just looks at him, still breathing hard. The gulf between them has never seemed so wide; the confident, easy prince with all the glory and advantages in the world, and the young knight still struggling for his first taste of success. 

Victor tilts his head to the side, speaking carefully. “If you don’t win the tourney, all the blame will rest with me anyhow. They’ll say I should have trained you better.”

A sick heat blooms in Yuuri’s gut, rushing up to his face, until he’s gasping for air. He struggles to remove his helm, finally throwing it on the grass next to his sword. He crosses the clearing with angry strides, glaring up into Victor’s face.

“You think I don’t know that?” Yuuri demands. “You think shaming you — _you_ , the _prince_ — isn’t what I’m most worried about? Wasting this opportunity because I was too slow or too stupid to live up to your training?”

Hot tears run down his face, and he reaches up impatiently to wipe them away with one hand. He sees Victor flinch at that, looking away.

“I don’t know what to do,” Victor mutters, speaking to the ground. “Stop weeping, Yuuri, please — shall I kiss you? That’s the only thing I can think of — ”

“No!” Yuuri snaps, trying not to listen. This is worse than the morning they sat on the broad ledge of the rookery window, when Victor teased him about wanting a lover. It was humiliating, that Victor might think Yuuri would presume so much, and worse now, that he’s still jesting about it.

Victor looks up at him, perhaps hearing the desperation in Yuuri’s voice. His eyes are wide, as pale blue as the sky, and he seems to be listening hard, like he’s trying to finally understand.

Yuuri shakes his head, hard, and lets out a long exhale. “Just believe in me,” he says, speaking more quietly. “Please. It’s the one thing I can’t do for myself.”

Victor blinks, at last. He opens his mouth like he’s about to say something, then stops, the words arrested. Yuuri quirks up one corner of his mouth in a rueful smile. 

“I’m going to take a walk,” he says, and turns away before Victor can speak.

The woods are dense here, at the edge of the clearing, and he picks his way through the underbrush, following the stream. It’s still morning, though getting on for noon, and the birds are singing, the sound shrill and harsh to his jangled nerves. Yuuri looks up at the sunlight coming through the branches above, and thinks of the godswood back home, and the night he kept his vigil there.

In the lore of chivalry, that’s when he truly became a knight, not when he defeated Yuri Targaryen in the training yard. It was the long meditation that made the change, growing from boy to adult, taking up his sword in defense of liege and country. He thinks of Victor’s words weeks ago, when he urged Yuuri to accept Kenjirou as his squire — _joining the long line that you’re part of_. Receiving his knighthood from Victor tied them together in ways he can’t fully imagine yet, but he knows now that Victor didn’t do it lightly. Victor wouldn’t have taken responsibility for Yuuri if he didn’t think Yuuri could live up to his expectations.

Yuuri leans his forehead against the thick trunk of an oak tree, letting out a sigh and closing his eyes. It’s always the same demons plaguing him, ever since he began to enter competition, even when he first arrived in Dorne and sparred with the young prince there. The fear, the hesitation, the doubt, all making his sword feel twice as heavy as it really is. He wishes so much to _move_ , to not feel weighted down by considerations. To do what must be done.

He hears a faint noise from the clearing behind him. And then, sharp and distinct, Victor’s shout. “ _Yuuri!_ ”

Later, he won’t be able to explain why he takes off running as quickly as he can in full plate with a sheathed sword banging against his legs, moving through tangled forest undergrowth. There was something in Victor’s shout, urgent and arresting, and Yuuri simply knows. 

He sees them when he breaks through the trees. Six roughly-dressed men, none very large or intimidating but armed with knives or short swords, surrounding Victor in the middle of the clearing. Victor’s fighting them all, his hair loose and wild as he turns and whirls amongst them. He knocks away a knife thrust, hits someone in the jaw with a mailed elbow, and backs up a step before kicking one of the bandits square in the stomach. He’s been cut on one cheek, blood streaking down, but there’s a fierce joy about him, his mouth pulled back in a battle grimace that’s almost a smile.

“Victor!” Yuuri shouts, unsheathing his sword.

At the sound of his voice Victor turns his head, which is when one of the men clubs him on the head from behind.

Victor staggers, falling against another bandit. Yuuri runs across the field to join the fray.

There’s no time to think. He turns amongst them just as Victor did, slashing his sword at whatever enemy is before him. None of them is clad in anything heavier than boiled leather, and he thinks they weren’t out on a raid or foray, but saw the prince and seized their chance for a hefty ransom. His tourney sword has blunted edges but it’s still a better weapon than their knives, probably used for little more than threatening victims or cutting meat. 

Yuuri smashes one man across the face with his sword, bloodying his nose and sending him back with a howl. Another bandit makes a jab at his unprotected neck from behind, but the blade slides off Yuuri’s armor and he spins fast, knocking the man aside. It makes the bandit drop the knife, and Yuuri risks precious seconds to stoop and pick it up, giving him a weapon in each hand. His leather buckler is still strapped to his arm, and he uses it to shove the man off while he deals with the bandit on his right side, coming in with a wickedly curved short sword. 

They do battle for a few moments, blades ringing together, until the man clearly sees how overmastered he is. Fear comes into his eyes, and Yuuri swings the point of his sword near the man’s eyes once more, menacing. The bandit drops his sword and turns, running for the woods.

Someone hits him from behind. It was probably meant for his head, just as happened to Victor, but at the last moment Yuuri dodges and catches the blow on his shoulder instead. He turns to see the largest of the bandits, swinging a heavy club up for another strike. Moving on pure instinct, Yuuri raises his left hand and slashes the knife across the man’s throat.

Surprise blooms on the man’s face, along with a line of dark blood below his chin. Yuuri gapes for a moment, stunned, but there are still two more bandits to deal with and Victor lying injured on the ground, and he can’t linger. The battle heat is still on him, and he turns to see the last two men leaning over Victor, tugging at his arms as though they’re trying to drag him away.

“You!” Yuuri shouts, feeling all his boiling rage in his voice. It’s a towering cry, powerful and loud, and both men look up, startled and wide-eyed. Without a word they both rise, dropping Victor’s arms and turning to flee into the forest.

Yuuri glances around him, wildly, but the clearing is empty now. He stands there a moment, panting hard, with a strange wild lightness rising in his veins. He drops his sword and the knife, and then looks down at Victor, not knowing what he’ll see.

Victor’s eyes are open, and there’s a look on his face that Yuuri’s never seen before. Elation, pain, and something like that fierce joy Yuuri saw in him before, when he was fighting off all six bandits at once.

“Yuuri,” Victor says, his voice quiet and cracked.

Yuuri drops to his knees in the dirt, bending over Victor. He touches Victor’s face, the still-bleeding cut, and brushes his silver hair off his forehead. The blood is pounding in Yuuri’s head, his fingertips, and he’s never felt so alive.

Victor, smiling, gets on one elbow. He reaches up, hooks a hand behind Yuuri’s neck, and pulls him down into a kiss.

There isn’t enough air in the world. There’s all the time Yuuri could ever want, feeling Victor’s lips against his. He tastes blood and sweat and dirt, and then Victor opens his mouth to flick his tongue against Yuuri’s lip, until Yuuri opens too. Now there’s a sweet, tangy taste, soft and liquid, and the plushness of Victor’s warm mouth, surprising and enticing. Yuuri chases it, kissing back with a breathless, growing eagerness, as Victor pulls him steadily down.

“Your Highness,” someone says, quite close.

Yuuri yanks his head up to see one of the guardsmen crossing the clearing to them. Behind him are the rest of the company, Maestra Minako and his sister included, just coming through the trees on the far side. 

“We heard shouts,” the man says, apologetically. “Is everything, er, all right?”

Yuuri blinks and then sits back on his heels. “The prince was attacked by bandits,” he says, somewhat dazed. “I…fought them off.”

“I can see,” the man says, his gaze drifting. Yuuri turns to look.

The bandit — the man — he killed is lying there, white and drained of blood, very still. It sends a shudder through Yuuri, and he has to swallow hard, catching his breath. For all his years of sword training, he’s never raised a weapon to another person in true combat before, with life on the line.

“Ser Stark was very brave,” Victor says, softly. 

Yuuri turns back to him. Victor’s still reclining, but he manages to look composed and faintly amused even stretched out on the ground. 

“Are you hurt, Your Highness?” the guardsman asks. 

Others are beginning to catch up now, Maestra Minako a little ahead of them all, moving hastily in her black robes. “Hmph,” she says, coming to kneel by Victor’s side. “You don’t look hurt.”

“I think only my pride,” Victor says, turning to look up at her. “Even in my prime, I’m not sure I could have handled six bandits myself.”

She clucks at him, examining his head. “And when was your prime? Last week?”

Kenjirou has reached them now, and he comes to stand by Yuuri. “I can’t believe you fought them all, Ser Stark! Ten bandits?”

“Only six,” Yuuri mumbles. He’s still looking at Victor, still dazed by what just happened between them, and the awareness that everyone here must have seen it.

“Oh, only six?” Mari asks dryly, coming up to the group. She glances between Yuuri and Victor, but doesn’t say anything more.

Maestra Minako is helping Victor to rise now, slowly and painfully. His cheek is still bleeding freely, and his long hair is full of grass and dirt. He reaches up to brush some away, smiling ruefully, and winces when his hand meets the sore place on the back of his head. 

“Are you all right?” Yuuri asks, getting to his feet as well.

“Yes,” Victor says. He hasn’t taken his eyes off Yuuri since they moved apart, and Yuuri feels hot with the weight of it. “Just — surprised.”

Yuuri nods, and then a sudden smile breaks out across his face. He’s giddy again, light-headed with relief and something else, something deeper, the feeling that everything has changed once again. He’s won so much more than a battle here today. 

“I was surprised, too,” Yuuri says, blinking in the morning light.


	6. Six - Victor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To the tourney at last (and episode 10). From here on out, the chapters get longer and the story begins to diverge from YOI canon.
> 
> Thanks as always to someitems for being a sounding board and light beta reader (remaining errors are my own). Thanks also to crimsonseer for the great idea of having songs be made about the banquet night when Yuuri danced with Victor. :)

Harrenhal is exactly as vast, ugly, and inconvenient as Victor remembers. It’s a castle built on such huge proportions as to be comical, and he recalls his father mocking it when he was younger, calling it the lakeside monstrosity. “Roasted to a sludge,” Aerys used to laugh, whenever Lord Whent came to court.

Victor always felt a prickle of horror thinking of the giant castle, whose construction was completed the same year the Targaryen conquerors came to Westeros on dragonback. Those same dragons turned their deadly fire on the gargantuan towers of Harrenhal, killing all its inhabitants and melting the stones themselves to a hideous, corroded semi-ruin. In the three centuries since then, the remains of the castle have been held by a number of noble families, each of whom died out in more or less mysterious ways. The smallfolk whisper confidently of a curse on the place, and Victor, born amidst fire and tragedy himself, can never bring himself to completely disbelieve it.

Lord Whent holds the castle now, and he seems content enough. He’s offered the tourney-goers a fine hospitality, with fires burning throughout the Hall of a Hundred Hearths and a good spread for hungry travelers, with minstrels playing in the gallery above. It's just as Victor remembers from times before, but everything is different today.

Victor crosses the hall, keeping his head high and his face impassive. Around him, people nod their bows but no one approaches, which is exactly what he prefers just now. Yuuri is resting in their rooms above, and Victor needs time to adjust to the world again, he thinks. He isn’t quite sure of his new place in it just yet.

Harrenhal has, of course, a godswood on the same massive scale as its towers, and Victor wraps his cloak around himself and ventures outside. The weather has been good for some time, but it’s turned colder of late and he’s beginning to think this was only a false spring after all, just a glimpse of warmth in the midst of winter. 

The godswood looks different than Winterfell’s, filled with tall oaks and redwoods instead of the grey, narrow sentinel trees of the north. There’s a pond in the middle, ruffled by a faint wind, and Victor glances around the empty forest before stripping his clothes and sliding into the water.

It’s chilly but bearable. He swims across the length of the shallow pond, water weeds brushing his feet, and then turns over onto his back to stare at the sky. The afternoon sun is beginning to set, growing orange and losing its warmth as it moves to the west, behind the castle. It’s good to just not think for a little while, holding his breath against the coming turmoil. 

His father arrives tonight. His lady mother is with child, a late life baby, and he knows she’ll remain in King’s Landing with little Viserys, his quiet, wary-eyed brother. Aerys will come, though, retinue in tow, and all the worries and conflicts Victor’s been able to escape for months will crowd in again. The future, the past, the unsettling present. His father’s strange behavior, and all the noble lords and ladies who want Victor to do something about it. 

Victor closes his eyes, which is when he hears a splash at the other end of the pond. 

He opens them again to see Christophe Lannister’s sleek blond head rising above the waters. Christophe shakes it once, droplets flying everywhere, and then grins, stroking across the pond.

“Victor!” he says. “This water’s too cold for anyone without dragon blood in their veins.”

Victor smiles, rolling over to stand on the bottom of the pond, the water still covering his shoulders. Christophe is the son of Lady Regula Lannister, his father’s Hand and administrator of the kingdom, and they’ve grown up meeting at tourneys and official banquets since they were small. He thinks at one time there was talk of betrothing them, but his father has been insistent on finding someone of royal blood for Victor to marry, and in truth Christophe isn’t Victor’s ideal consort. He’s suave and handsome, but never fully open with himself, in the way of all his family.

They’ve always been friends, though. He raises his hand and sends a splashing wave of water at Christophe, who grins and sends it back. 

“The water must be warmer than it was up at Winterfell, though,” Christophe says. “Probably froze off any hope of an heir to Westeros, eh?”

Victor makes a face and ignores the joke. “The Winterfell godswood has a hot spring instead of a duck pond. I was probably warmer than you are at Casterly Rock.”

Christophe’s eyebrows go up in recognition. “Ah, yes, the famed healing springs. No wonder you journeyed so far! You must have the health of a young boy again, if you’ve been soaking in those springs for months.”

Now Victor frowns. “Healing? No one ever called them that.”

Christophe rolls his shoulders, shrugging. “It’s an old legend. Everybody knows. Now tell me — you _are_ competing in the tourney, yes? I can’t imagine Prince Victor watching any competition from the stalls.”

Victor smiles. “Hardly. I’ll be watching from the training masters’ box.”

“You aren’t really here as a master at arms, are you?” Christophe asks, incredulous. “They said you were training young Stark, but I didn’t believe the rumor.”

“ _Ser_ Stark, now,” Victor corrects. “And why not?”

Christophe laughs, hearty and long. “Well, you always did do exactly as you pleased. I’m sure your father _wasn’t_ pleased.” He flips onto his back and begins to stroke across the pond.

“Mm,” Victor says, stiffly. He follows Christophe, though, and they race and splash until the sun falls behind the trees, covering the pond in shadow. 

Back inside the castle, he moves hurriedly through the great hall, wrapped in his cloak and carrying his clothes, leaving a dripping trail behind. He comes up the stairs to the chamber he’s sharing with Yuuri, and opens the door to find him still sleeping.

Victor crosses the room and draws the curtain, letting in the last of the setting sun, and then sits on the end of the bed to braid his hair, hanging wet over his shoulders. The movement seems to wake Yuuri, who stirs and opens his eyes slowly, squinting against the light in the room.

“Victor?” he asks, sleepily.

Victor looks over at him and smiles, fondly.

They haven’t talked about yesterday’s kiss. It was heady and impulsive, in the wake of Yuuri’s truly impressive performance, fighting off six bandits at once while Victor lay on the ground with a dazed, ringing head. Yuuri did it with nothing more than a blunted tourney sword and his own blazing power, and Victor wasn’t able to resist pulling him down into a breathless kiss afterwards, interrupted all too quickly by the arrival of the rest of their party.

He’s tried to put away his feelings, these last few months. It seems clear that he misread the situation last year at Highgarden, both the dance and the invitation, but Yuuri hasn’t completely rejected him, either. Training him has been difficult, maddening, and amazingly satisfying, seeing him come into his own. Victor knows it’s hopeless, but as he’s gotten to know Yuuri better as a person, not the laughing, mysterious man of his memories, he’s wanted him all the more. He’s only tried to wait, holding himself back, with the wish that someday things might change.

And maybe, after all, it isn’t hopeless. Yuuri kissed him back yesterday, warm and eager, and Victor doesn’t think he’s imagined all those flickers of heat between them since he came to Winterfell, months ago. Everything seems thrilling and more alive when he’s around Yuuri, like he’s seeing a world he never even dreamed of before.

Still. They haven’t talked. It doesn’t seem like the right time now, with the tourney starting in two days’ time, and Yuuri withdrawing into himself as soon as they returned to their camp yesterday. The battle probably had something to do with it, Victor reminds himself.

“I’ve never killed anyone before,” Yuuri told him quietly, on the walk back. “I’ve never even struck a person except for sparring.”

Victor made a soft noise, meant to show both understanding and the fact that his head felt as if someone was pounding on it like an anvil. “Let’s hope you never need to kill anyone again.”

Yuuri didn’t look at him. “I’m a knight now,” he said. “I might have to.”

He didn’t say anything for the rest of the walk, and when they mounted up for the last miles to Harrenhal, he rode far ahead, away from anyone else. 

Now Yuuri’s staring up at Victor, eyes still heavy-lidded, studying him. Victor finishes braiding his hair in silence, deciding what attitude to take up. He wants, so much, to ask what Yuuri thought of the kiss they shared. If he wants to do it again, if it means that his feelings have changed from what they were. 

Victor wants so much from Yuuri; small trembling nameless things that would sound foolish out loud. To hold his hand and stroke his hair, to break their fast at the same table every morning, to laugh together over a book in bed. He doesn’t think Yuuri has any suspicion of what he’s meant to Victor all these months, how just the idea of him has been a breath of cool fresh air, an opened window in Victor’s life.

But this evening isn’t the time for Victor to ask anything of him. Yuuri doesn’t need honesty or vulnerability from Victor right now, but the kind of half-teasing, half-serious support Victor’s learned to give him since they began this. Never unmixed praise, never harsh criticism, just light-hearted words that urge Yuuri on to better things.

“Still sleeping?” Victor says, putting away his thoughts for another time. His real self will keep a little longer. “Supper’s laid below. You should eat and gain strength for more sleeping.”

Yuuri rubs at his eyes, breaking their gaze, and then yawns, sitting up. “I should probably find Phichit. Prince Phichit, I mean. I forgot to send a raven to him from the last tavern.”

“I’m sure he knows you’re here,” Victor says, lightly. “Everyone does.”

Yuuri frowns at him, and seems to be about to say something when there’s a knock at the door. 

Lady Whent apologized profusely last night for not having separate chambers reserved for Victor. “I didn’t know he was bringing a training master, let alone _the prince_!” she said, over and over, as she frantically rearranged sleeping arrangements on a scrap of parchment. “I haven’t a spare bed in the place, but I can’t let _the prince_ sleep on a cot,” she muttered to an underling, before finally showing them to this tower room.

“It’s the largest room in the castle, save your father’s chamber,” Lady Whent said, flinging the door open. “I would have set it aside for you alone, Your Highness, if only I’d known,” she added, sounding a little irritable. Her high, conical headdress had been quivering with faint annoyance since they’d first arrived, as though one prince at loose ends would ruin her all her plans for the great tourney.

So they have a larger room to share, which is at least better than the tiny chamber originally reserved for Yuuri. Victor doesn’t know if it was a deliberate personal snub or just the south’s general disdain for the north, but it was hardly more than a squire’s room and he’s much happier to think of Yuuri well-rested in comfortable surroundings, rather than sleeping in that cramped and windowless chamber.

There’s only one bed here, but as Victor pointed out, it’s more than large enough to share. Yuuri seemed less certain, but he didn’t say anything. He didn’t snore either, last night.

The knock at the door is repeated, insistent. It’s the quick, perfunctory rap of someone on official business, and Victor finally crosses the room and opens the door to meet his father’s secretary. 

“Your Highness,” Marcus says. “His Grace has arrived, and requests your presence.”

Victor looks at the man for just one moment, considering. Imagining stepping out of this room, the ambit he's been in since he left home, where his only concerns are the strength in Yuuri's arm and the glimpse of something in Yuuri's eyes. Entering his father's world again, with all that entails.

“Tell him I’ll see him tomorrow after breakfast,” he says, and shuts the door.

Behind him, Yuuri makes a noise of surprise. “The king — ” he says.

“Can wait,” Victor says, firmly. “Let’s get you dressed for supper.”

*****

In the end, they don’t go downstairs to eat. Yuuri yawns some more and Victor eyes him carefully, before putting a hand on his chest to stop him getting out of bed. “More rest,” Victor says, firmly. “I think you’re still done in from yesterday.”

The rush of blood to Yuuri’s face is obvious, as his eyes flick up and then down to the floor. Victor’s mouth goes dry — will they speak of it? — but Yuuri only clears his throat and mumbles, “You were the one who was hit on the head.”

Victor laughs. “Rubbing salt in the wound? I hope you won’t repeat that story here, though I suppose I deserve it.” 

Yuuri’s head snaps up. “I would never! Only — perhaps you should be looked at by a healer, someone who knows more than Maestra Minako.”

Victor brings up his hand to rub gingerly at the lump at the base of his skull. “She said it only needed rest and a better brain inside. Let’s have supper brought to us.”

They eat in the room, reclining on separate sides of the enormous bed. It’s hung with snowy linen blazoned with the crest of the Whents, nine black bats on a golden field. Victor studies it thoughtfully, chewing over a bite of venison, thinking the bats are an unfortunate association for these craggy, ruined towers. 

He looks over to see Yuuri dozing off again, a plate of food still resting on his chest. A stab of fond tenderness goes through Victor, and he reaches over to take the plate, pulling the coverlet further up and extinguishing the lamp on that side. He’s tired himself, but it still takes him a while to find sleep.

In the morning, it’s Yuuri who rises early. Victor wakes to see him pulling on training gear and combing his hair in the smoky glass on the wall. They slept in the same pavilion many nights on the road here, but he’s still charmed watching Yuuri get ready in the morning; the bared strip of skin as he tugs his linen shirt down, the tuft of hair that always sticks up in back. Victor’s still besotted with him, as confusing as the last months have been. He doesn’t know if he’ll ever be as close to Yuuri as he dreams, but for now he takes these small moments of intimacy when he can.

Yuuri turns. “I’m going to meet Phichit. Coming?”

Victor yawns. “I’ll find you in the yard later. Are you training for the joust?”

“Mm,” Yuuri says, nodding, as he finishes fastening his jerkin. “I’ll have to find Minami to outfit me.”

“I told him to wait for you after breakfast, but whether he did remains to be seen,” Victor says. “I’m beginning to regret encouraging you to take on someone so inexperienced.”

He closes his eyes as he speaks, but he can still _feel_ Yuuri bristle at that. Victor smiles, pleased.

“He’s come a long way,” Yuuri says, defensively. “You can’t expect him to know everything so soon.”

Victor just smiles, yawning again, and turns over as Yuuri goes out the door.

The west-facing room is still dim, and Victor could sleep the morning away and have breakfast brought to his room. The thought is tempting, very much so. But he’s been on the run for five months now, and he knows it’s time he faced his father.

It won’t be so bad, he tells himself, lacing up his finest jacket. Periwinkle-blue silk, expensive enough to make even his tailor’s eyes pop, and sufficient Myrish lace trim for fifty handkerchiefs. The embroidery he’s especially proud of; done to his sketched specifications, and tracing dragonflies so shining and lifelike in their silver-green thread they seem poised to fly off his shoulders. His father rolled his eyes every time Victor came into the court in this jacket, but Victor never feels more himself than when he’s wearing it.

He needs every bit of that confidence today, in truth. His father never even sent a letter to Winterfell after him, but Victor knows nothing escapes his notice, or his wrath. The months of silence only mean the approaching tempest will be that much more stormy.

Victor brushes his hair until it shines, and leaves it unbound. His father does like that, a reminder of their bloodline. He selects a pin clustered with rubies to close the lace at his throat, matching the ruby-set eyes of the embroidered dragonflies, then laces up his soft deerskin boots and prepares for the worst with a smile on his face. 

This would go better if he’d eaten, but Victor doesn’t want to face the crowds below, or waste any more time. He remembers the way to the king’s chambers from previous tourneys here, and he strides through the hall unchecked by guards. Targaryen silver hair is a badge of warrant, and besides, there’s never anywhere in Westeros he can go that he isn’t known by all. 

Victor reaches the door at last, arched and barred with iron. He takes a deep breath, nods at the guards on either side, and knocks.

“Enter,” says a familiar voice, creaky and strong and frail and chilling, all at once. 

Victor pushes open the door to find his father half-reclining on a velvet chair, having his feet washed by a servant girl. His senses are assaulted by a thousand things, and in a moment his lace jabot feels like it’s choking him, his heart pounding hard as the memories rush back. 

The smell, first of all. His father has only been here since last night but already there’s that familiar close reek, both of unwashed clothes and Aerys’s own dirty body. His father doesn’t allow any servant near him often, and Victor wonders at this girl kneeling down to carefully scrub Aerys’s pale, crooked feet in a steaming copper bowl. Aerys’s fingernails are long and his silver hair matted and filthy, dull where Victor’s shines, hanging in his bloodshot eyes. 

Those eyes. They've always seemed to see everything, ever since Victor was small. Light and cruel and laughing then, suspicious and haunted now. Victor suppresses a shudder, and then clears his throat to speak.

“Father,” he says, sketching a brief bow, hand pressed to his heart.

Aerys laughs. “Our son,” he says, and shakes his head, as if he doesn’t believe his own words. “How have these northern barbarians been treating you?”

“With honor,” Victor says. “The Starks — ”

Aerys shakes his head again, cutting him off. “We are not speaking of them. Descendants of forest savages! We meant the Whents, of course, and their clumsy smallfolk.” He kicks his foot in the basin, splashing water in the face of the serving girl. She recoils, wiping at her eye, but doesn’t look up from her task.

“My accommodations are good,” Victor says, carefully. He licks his lips, aware that his heart is beating hard beneath his tight jacket. 

His gaze is drawn by a painting hanging on the wall, one he’s never seen in his father’s chambers before. It’s of his little brother Viserys, standing stiff and defiant, his chin raised and his long silver hair held back at the temples. The look in his eyes reminds him of Aerys.

Victor looks back to see his father watching him, smiling. “That’s new,” Victor says.

“You like that?” Aerys asks, a rough, mocking note to his voice. “Paint us our son, we told them. The first fool couldn’t get the expression right. Simpering, stupid. We had him executed, of course,” he adds, casually. 

Victor nods, mechanically. “It’s a fine likeness.”

“Mm,” Aerys says, reaching up to stroke his face. He looks over, studying the painting. “It’s missing some of his…vivacity, we think. He’s proving quite an apt pupil in his lessons.” He looks back at Victor again with a faint, unkind smile on his face, like he’s waiting for Victor to say something, daring him to. 

Victor remembers the lessons, from when he was Viserys’s age. He remembers everything, no matter how he’s tried to forget. 

“I’ve missed him,” Victor says, deliberately. It takes the conversation in the direction he’d rather avoid, but anything is better than this. “I wrote him a few letters.”

Aerys raises a hand, dismissive. “An active young boy has no time for letters. And besides, there’s nothing _you_ could have told him that was worth the telling.” He snorts. “A royal prince, haring off to the wilds to play nursery maid just because a half-grown wildling danced with you. Disgusting.”

“The Starks hold Wardship of the North by royal command,” Victor says. “He’s no wildling.” He’s clenching his jaw, trying to stay patient in the face of his father’s obvious provocation. Aerys _wants_ him to lose his temper, so he can laugh at him, or worse. 

“Mm,” Aerys says, that same wheezing, sardonic sound Victor remembers. “Tell us, were you successful? Was it worth it?”

For a moment, Victor wishes he could tell everything. His hopes for Yuuri’s career, his secret wishes about Yuuri’s heart. The warmth between them, how it began with a dance and ended with a kiss, and how it’s so much more than that. Yuuri’s sweetness and his strength, and the kind, solid family love Victor found at Winterfell. Everything he didn’t know he’d been aching for, his entire life.

But his father is still staring at him from behind that dirty fall of hair, teeth bared in what’s hardly a grin, more of a snarl. And he thinks about the barrels of wildfire back at the Red Keep, and his father muttering in his chambers, pacing through the small hours with a long list in his hand. 

“Yes,” Victor says. “It was worth it.”

Aerys throws back his head and laughs, long and barking. “He says it was worth it,” he says, over his shoulder, not to the serving girl but to an open chest behind him. Victor hadn’t even noticed it in all the clutter of belongings, but now he recognizes the three round shapes, resting in padded purple velvet.

“You brought the eggs,” Victor says, surprised. 

Aerys turns back to look at him, cloudy blue eyes bright now they’re no longer hidden behind his hair. “Of course we brought them. They’re family, aren’t they?”

The dragon eggs have been family heirlooms since long before Victor was born. In a way, they’re a part of his birth; his great-grandfather King Aegon burned down Summerhall palace with wildfire trying to awaken them, leaving the world the same night Victor entered it. The eggs survived the blaze, somewhat smoke-blackened but still cool to the touch, even when they were recovered later from the smoldering remains. They’ve stayed in the royal treasury since then, but in the last year Victor’s seen his father standing over them from time to time, caressing the pebbled shells and muttering something low.

And now they’re here, unlikely spots of wild, strange beauty in dragon-ruined Harrenhal. They look the same as Victor remembers, vivid red, black and green, and he remembers gazing at them as a child, thinking he’d take the deep crimson one if he could only make it somehow hatch, wings unfurling from the broken shell. His schoolmaster told him they were centuries old, fossilized by now, but still Victor dreamed.

As does his father, it seems.

“Did you wish anything else of me?” Victor asks, thinking to end the interview now. His father’s played with him, tormented him, fallen short of threatening him. Surely there can’t be much more to discuss.

“We wish you to come home,” Aerys says, with brisk finality. “When the tourney is over, of course. But no more playing at being a training master. You have more important work to do.”

“But I — ” Victor starts to say. 

Aerys wrenches his foot from the serving girl. He puts his hands on the arms of his chair and rises, slow, his burning eyes fixed on Victor.

“ _By royal command_ ,” he says, voice so high it’s almost a screech. “Do you understand?”

And here is the threat. Victor bows his head. “Yes, Father,” he says, quietly.

There’s the noise of splashing water as Aerys sits again, settling himself in the chair. Victor doesn’t look up, knowing it’s best to wait now.

“We dismiss you from our presence,” his father says. 

Victor goes.

*****

He finds Yuuri in the castle yard, taking jousting practice with someone in unfamiliar plate mail. It’s scale armor, the round discs highly enameled in blue and copper, and Victor realizes after a moment it’s Dornish make. This must be Prince Phichit, Yuuri’s foster brother. 

The two men come at each other on their stallions, one black and one bay, clashing again and again with their pole arms. Finally Prince Phichit gets his lance under Yuuri’s wooden shield and manages to unseat him, toppling him onto the dusty ground. Yuuri lands well, rolling onto his side, and Prince Phichit brings his horse circling around, lifting his visor.

“Watch how you hold your shield!” he calls out, laughing. “You were always too stiff.”

Victor steps forward. “I keep telling him that. Maybe one day he’ll listen.”

He extends a hand to Yuuri, pulling him to his feet. Yuuri pushes up his own visor, and Victor sees he’s smiling too, looking up fondly at his friend. “It’s that light armor,” he says to Victor. “Phichit always could move more swiftly in combat.”

Victor frowns. “It’s more dangerous.” He taps Yuuri’s plate mailed chest, sending out a hollow thump. “Give me solid steel on the tourney field any day.”

“Oi, Yuuri, do you want to go again?” Phichit asks. His tanned face is still creased with smiles, his dark eyes mischievous, and Victor sees why Yuuri’s drawn to someone so cheerful and light-hearted. They must have been quite the pair as young boys, tormenting the life out of their training master. “If His Highness will allow.”

“I’m sorry, I’ve come to take your foster brother away,” Victor says, turning to him. “It’s time for his midday rest.”

Phichit laughs, throwing his head back. Victor’s sorry he’s never come to court before; he would have been an enlivening presence. “Yuuri, you didn’t tell me you’d gotten a new nanny.”

Victor looks back at Yuuri, who’s making a face. “Let’s go out to the merchants’ tents,” Yuuri says, quickly. “I want to browse the wares, perhaps find gifts for people back home. You forget, tourneys are exciting for us northerners.”

His words send a sudden chill through Victor, thinking of his interview with his father, and Aerys’s scornful words. He hunches his shoulders. “If you like,” Victor says. “Where’s your squire?”

Yuuri rolls his eyes, looking embarrassed. “He’s off to the market as well. I shouldn’t have given him leave, but he wanted to so badly. I remember my first tourney.”

“Hmph,” Victor says. “Well, I guess there’s nothing for it. Turn around.”

He begins to strip Yuuri’s armor, working swiftly. The yard is crowded with far more than just Prince Phichit; other competitors waiting their turn on the training ground, squires and castle servants, passing smallfolk. It occurs to him that they’re all seeing the crown prince of Westeros performing a squire’s work, and the thought is oddly pleasant. He wanted a change this year, and he’s certainly getting it.

And anything is worth it for _Yuuri_ , especially if it means being close to him like this. Removing his armor piece by piece, undoing straps and buckles, brushing his hands over Yuuri’s body. There’s a part of Victor that thinks Yuuri likes it too, even leans into his touch, but perhaps that’s only wishful thinking.

All too soon, the task is finished, and Yuuri turns to face him. He still looks a little flushed, but that could be from the exercise. Victor reaches up to brush Yuuri’s hair from his eyes, looking for any excuse to prolong the contact, to kindle this warmth between them. 

“Ready?” he asks.

Yuuri only nods, swallowing, and turns away.

They take Yuuri’s stallion back to the stables as they go, leaving his armor in the stall, and then they enter the warren of striped and colorful merchants’ tents, a riot of crowds and colors and sounds. Entertainers stand at every corner, jugglers and singers and acrobats, and Victor looks over to see Yuuri’s eyes widen at the sights. 

“You look like it’s _your_ first tourney,” he murmurs in Yuuri’s ear, smiling.

“It’s bigger this year,” Yuuri replies, turning his head to stare at a dwarf eating fire as calmly as if it were a piece of bread.

They wander up and down the aisles, browsing the wares. Victor thrills to think of being in plain sight like this; surely no one would expect the prince, almost alone and entirely unguarded. He’s shopped in these stalls before, but always with a contingent of his father’s men and never with such delight. He buys a few small things, a jeweled pin and some sugared nuts, more for the pleasure of accumulating packages than for any real need. He sees Yuuri’s gaze fall on many things, but nothing seems to take his fancy until they pass by a stall selling favors.

None of them are particularly fine or noteworthy, just small gauds to be given to knights to carry into battle. Victor’s been offered them frequently enough, from ladies and gentlemen alike, but always turned them down in the name of diplomacy. It wouldn’t be politic for a prince to show too much inclination to anyone. 

Yuuri’s still staring, though, and Victor wonders what he’s thinking. Has he carried such a favor before, and who gave it to him? 

“Maybe I should buy one of these,” Yuuri says, slowly. 

“For yourself?” Victor says, surprised. 

“I want something for luck,” Yuuri says. He’s coloring up again, as much as he did yesterday, after Victor kissed him. “And if I can’t have what I really want, I thought — perhaps I should make my own luck.”

Victor feels light-headed all of a sudden, pulse pounding in his ears, as an impulse comes to him. It’s strange how he can fight half his life on the tourney field without a shadow of fear, and yet speaking honestly to Yuuri requires a greater boldness than than the sword ever has. 

“What is it you really want?” he asks, his calm voice betraying none of the turmoil he feels. “A gift from an admirer?”

They’re standing a little apart from the crowd, in the space between two stalls. It’s quieter here, under the dappled shadow of a great oak tree, and he watches Yuuri closely, following the changing emotions on his face. Yuuri’s gaze is still fixed on the display of favors, and then he presses his lips together and looks up at Victor.

“Something of yours,” he says. “A favor from the greatest knight of our age.”

Victor’s heart feels clenched painfully tight in his chest. It’s so close to what he wants to hear, and yet so far. “I can give you that,” he says. He licks his lips. “But I want something of yours in exchange.”

Yuuri blinks in surprise. “Something of mine?”

Victor reaches up and touches Yuuri’s face, laying a hand briefly on his cheek before taking it away. “For luck.”

Now Yuuri’s gaze is fixed only on him. He frowns, lips parted slightly, breathing hard as he studies Victor’s face. The color is still high in his cheeks. 

“All right,” Yuuri says. He looks down, fumbling in his pocket. “You know I don’t care much for jewels. Will a handkerchief do?” He pulls out a plain white handkerchief, somewhat crumpled but clean. “I’m sorry, I can’t think of anything better.”

Victor smiles. “It will do excellently.” He takes the scrap of cloth, then reaches inside his jacket for a folded handkerchief of his own. It’s cambric, trimmed with a narrow band of lace, and embroidered with the black and gold dragon sigil of the Targaryens. “Mind you wear it with the crest facing outwards. I want everyone to see.”

Now Yuuri’s charmingly pink. He takes the handkerchief from Victor, folding it up and tucking it inside his own jacket, then looks back up again. “What, no final words of advice? This favor’s not worth much without them.”

“Mm, and what words would an admirer have for you?” Victor asks, softly. His heart pounds at this daring game, dancing so close to the truth, waiting for Yuuri to join in. 

Yuuri opens his mouth a little, looking surprised. He swallows, though, and seems to steady himself. “I said I wanted a favor from a great knight,” he says. “I want to hear his words.”

Victor doesn’t know exactly what’s happening here, lost in this tangled confusing warmth with Yuuri looking at him the way he always does, fierce and longing and defiant all at once. It strikes him, suddenly, that he’s never known if Yuuri wants him, or simply wants to _be_ him.

Yuuri’s offered him a way forward for now, though, and Victor takes it. He smiles, slipping into the role of teacher, wise and removed. “Ride the way you want to, tomorrow,” he says. “And the day after, swing your sword the way that feels best. Stop thinking of how you should be, and be as you are. That’s what I want to see.”

At his words, Yuuri takes in a sharp breath, and then lets it out in a soft, shaky sigh. Victor’s not sure what he wanted to hear, but he seems satisfied for now.

*****

They finish their shopping and head back to the castle, to prepare themselves for supper in the banquet hall. Upstairs in their room, Victor uses the basin to wash and then gives way to Yuuri, going to sort through his wardrobe. Tonight’s supper isn’t a formal affair, and he doubts his father will appear below, but he still has a reputation to maintain. He selects a snowy white shirt and a black and grey patchwork suede jerkin, and after a moment’s consideration over his jewel box, fetches the handkerchief from this morning’s jacket.

Victor turns it over, examining it. He finds a tiny embroidered YS in black on one corner, simply done, perhaps by Yuuri himself. Victor smiles, and pins it to the breast of his jerkin, turning it mark-side out and letting it drape in folds. 

He turns away from the bronze mirror, smoothing his loose hair back from his temples. Yuuri’s standing before the basin, stripped to the waist, washing under one arm and his torso glistening in the candlelight. He half turns as Victor crosses the room, and his gaze falls straight to the favor on Victor’s chest. 

Yuuri raises his eyes to meet Victor’s, wide and startled, but he doesn’t say anything.

He turns back to the basin and Victor sighs and stretches out on the bed, reaching for a small leatherbound novel he’s been reading. The story is tedious, and he keeps finding himself looking over the edge of the page, watching Yuuri as he moves around the room. First he dresses in a white shirt and black waistcoat, with black leggings beneath, and then he stands before the mirror, fiddling with something. Victor catches a flash of white, and sure enough when Yuuri turns around he’s pinned Victor’s handkerchief below his throat, like a cravat. It’s mostly tucked into his waistcoat, but the dragon crest is showing.

“What do you think?” Yuuri asks, a little too intensely. His eyes are bright.

Victor considers. “I think you need a better tailor. The way that ill-fitted waistcoat hides your form is a tragedy.”

Yuuri rolls his eyes, turning away.

It’s loud in the hall below, everyone arrived now for the great tourney. Some are competitors but most are from the families, great and small, that make up the nobility of Westeros. Victor enters the hall, brushing past the young man he thinks is the Tyrell heir, Jean-Jacques, whom he’s heard will be riding in the joust on the morrow. His royal cousins are largely seated together in the center, Georgi and Mila amongst them, but his father isn’t there and neither is his cousin Yuri. 

Victor turns to see that his Yuuri has fallen a few steps behind him, hesitating in the doorway. Yuuri’s eyes flick around the room, like he’s looking for someone or just taking in the enormous crowds. Victor inclines his head, motioning him on. 

“What are you waiting for?” he asks. 

“I’m looking — there!” Yuuri says, relief crossing his face. “Phichit is seated in the far corner. With…” He trails off, frowning. 

Victor follows his gesture and sees a very odd grouping indeed. Prince Phichit is seated with Christophe Lannister, talking amiably, and with them are his cousin Yuri and Otabek Baratheon, whom Victor knows by sight from previous tourneys, but not well. Off to the side are Maestra Minako and Yuuri’s sister, listening to the conversation with faint smiles. It seems as attractive a place to sit as any, and Victor takes Yuuri’s elbow and steers him across the room.

“Lady Whent might have seating arrangements — ” Yuuri huffs, stumbling along.

“If they were as terrible as her sleeping arrangements, disrupting them will be an improvement,” Victor says. “I don’t even want to think where the crown prince was supposed to be.”

They reach the table, and Christophe and Phichit look up with pleasure, inviting them to sit. Yuri scowls from beneath his hair, and Otabek regards them with guarded curiosity. Victor pulls out a chair for Yuuri and then sits himself, reaching for the flagon of wine to fill his glass.

“Yuuri!” Christophe says, moving his chair closer. “ _Ser_ Yuuri. I’m delighted to see you at a banquet again.” He gives Victor a sidelong grin, raising an eyebrow. Victor ignores it, remembering that Yuuri danced with Christophe too last year. 

“Ah, and you as well,” Yuuri says, seeming a little confused. He reaches for the basket of bread, taking a piece.

Christophe looks back at Victor again, leaning his head on his hand, a sparkle in his eyes. He reaches for an olive and pops it into his mouth, lips twisting as he works around the pit. He spits it delicately into his fingers and drops it on the plate before looking back at Yuuri. 

“Surely you recall our dance,” Christophe says. “I know I do.”

Yuuri startles, turning pink. “I’m sorry?”

To Victor’s surprise, his cousin joins the conversation. “Everyone remembers,” Yuri says with heavy disgust. “The whole court saw you at Highgarden.”

“Saw me _what_?” Yuuri demands. He looks between them with wide eyes.

Victor’s starting to feel just as confused, his fingers tingling with alarm. He takes a hard swallow of his wine, steadying himself. “Yuuri. You don’t remember?” 

Now Yuuri turns to him, a frown creasing his forehead. “I…what did I do? Did I dance?”

Christophe laughs. “Oh, you danced. With me, with Victor here. Everyone.”

“ _What_?” Yuuri practically shouts.

“You were so drunk you could hardly walk straight,” Yuri says, rolling his eyes. “I had a wager going you wouldn’t be able to dance either, but I lost a hundred gold dragons on you.”

“Someone wrote a song about it,” Christophe adds. “It was fashionable at Casterly Rock for a few months after, whenever a comic ballad was called for.”

Victor sees Yuuri’s mouth drop open, eyes going wide, and braces himself against what’s coming.

“Now how did it go?” Christophe says, a teasing frown on his face, and Victor knows he knows. “Something about the young man with no trousers, dancing with the prince for hours, tra-la.”

Yuuri covers his face with his hands, letting out a truly pathetic moan. Phichit is demanding more details from Christophe, and Otabek hasn’t said a word, though Victor knows he was there that night too.

“Looks like you inherited our father’s tendencies when he’s in his cups,” Mari says, dryly. “Perhaps I should have attended your tourneys earlier.”

Victor takes another swallow of his wine, not looking at Yuuri. His mind is reeling — Yuuri truly doesn’t remember the banquet? Victor’s always assumed he was just too embarrassed to discuss it, or didn’t want to presume upon that short acquaintance. If Yuuri doesn’t remember dancing together, doesn’t remember _inviting Victor to Winterfell_ , then everything that’s happened between them since takes on a strange new light, too much to consider right now.

“Victor,” Christophe says, leaning in. “You’re wearing someone’s favor, but not competing in the tourney?” He reaches out and touches the handkerchief pinned on Victor’s shoulder, brushing his fingers over the embroidered initials. “Who _is_ the mysterious YS? — ah.”

He looks over at Yuuri, clearly seeing the dragon crest tucked into his waistcoat, and smiles slyly. “An exchange of favors? You and Ser Stark must be considering betrothal.”

“Betrothal?” Prince Phichit says, sounding gleeful. He reaches out and slaps his friend’s shoulder. “Congratulations! It’s about time.”

Yuuri’s head snaps up, his face even redder than before. “No! Of course not — ”

Victor cuts him off. Everything that’s just happened is comical to the point of absurdity, and he has the sudden impulse to push things to the breaking point, making them truly ridiculous. It seems like the only way to resolve this disaster for now, turning the tables. “No, no, the betrothal won’t be official until Yuuri wins the tournament, of course.”

Everyone around them falls silent, even Phichit. Victor sees the smooth dark head of Jean-Jacques Tyrell swivel at the next table, his eyes narrowing.

“Wins the tournament, eh?” Christophe says, with dark humor. Phichit looks amused as well, though Otabek’s expression is as stony as ever and Yuri is clearly furious. 

Just then, there’s a commotion from the far end of the hall. Victor glances over to see someone pushing through the crowds, small and with a flash of yellow hair. The person bursts through to their table, and he realizes it’s Kenjirou, Yuuri’s squire. 

“Ser Stark!” Kenjirou cries, skidding to a halt. 

Now that he’s closer, Victor can see the boy looks rumpled and distraught; his clothes are wet and torn, and there’s straw in his hair. Kenjirou seems to realize that people at the surrounding tables are staring at him, everyone fallen silent, and flushes as red as the streak of hair above his brow.

“Kenjirou?” Yuuri asks, rising. “What’s the matter? What’s happened?”

Kenjirou looks around himself, and steps closer, speaking more quietly. “I’m sorry, Ser. Can we, er, talk privately?”

“Of course,” Yuuri says, stepping forward.

Victor follows them, leaving the others behind. Kenjirou goes to a secluded window nook beside one of the fireplaces, and gradually conversation in the hall behind them returns to its previous level of noise. 

Yuuri puts a hand on Kenjirou’s shoulder where his jacket is torn, the sleeve fraying away. “Please. Tell me what happened?”

Kenjirou hangs his head. “I’m sorry. I was in the stables, talking with the other squires. Two knights came along and said…things. I lost my temper.”

“Did you strike them?” Yuuri asks, frowning.

“No!” Kenjirou says, shaking his head furiously. “Just…exchanged stupid insults. My mouth ran off with me. I should have walked away.”

“Never mind that,” Yuuri says. “What did they do?”

Kenjirou’s glance slides away, out the darkened window to the fields below. Hundreds of fires dot the grounds; smallfolk come to watch the beginning of the tourney tomorrow, merchants come to sell them everything under the sun. “Not much. Pushed me around, left me in a hogshead full of water.” He strokes along his jaw with one hand, tenderly.

“Kenjirou,” Yuuri says, his voice full of warm reproach. Victor starts, because the tones are his own. Yuuri’s been listening to him all this while, learning from him. “Are you hurt?”

Kenjirou looks back up at him, fiercely. “I’ve been in a fight before! The boys were always scrapping at Winterfell. But I didn’t like what they said about — ”

He stops, looking abashed, and presses his lips together, eyes burning bright.

“What did they say?” Victor asks, gently. 

Kenjirou looks at him, nervously. “About you, Your Highness. Saying it wasn’t fair, you training Ser Stark. That you’d given him an advantage they didn’t have.”

Yuuri sighs. “Was that all?”

“It was enough!” Kenjirou says, clenching his fists. “I said you had talent they could never have, that you’d beat them all, and they said of course, since no man will be allowed to defeat the prince’s paramour.” Hot color rushes into his cheeks again, and he looks between them, startled and ashamed. “I’m sorry! I was only repeating — ”

“I’m sure they said worse than that,” Victor says. “Thank you, for doing what you thought was right. Can you tell me what sigils they wore?”

“One had a pitchfork on his doublet,” Kenjirou says, frowning. “I think the other had a porcupine.”

Victor nods. He doesn’t know either crest, but there’ll be a book of heraldry somewhere in the castle. Lady Whent will know.

“I want you to go to a healer,” Yuuri says, insistent. “Have your jaw bound up, to stop the swelling tomorrow. I’ll go with you.”

Victor opens his mouth, about to hold him back to discuss the matter further in private, but then he stops. After what just transpired at the banquet table, and all that was revealed, he thinks perhaps they both need a little space and time to think.

“I’m sorry, Your Highness,” Kenjirou says, one more time. “I hope I didn’t make anything worse.”

“No,” Victor says, shaking his head. “I’m sure you didn’t.”

Yuuri gives him one more glance, with those speaking amber eyes of his full of unsaid words, and then follows Kenjirou across the hall.

Victor watches them go. He knew there would be talk, and he knew what sort, but he didn’t think it would be this early or this ugly. He certainly hoped none of it would ever get back to Yuuri.

He passes a hand over his eyes, sighing. So much has happened in the last two days, and just when they both need most to focus on the task ahead, getting Yuuri through the first tourney event. After so many years of his easy, predictable life, comfort at the court and victory on the field, it’s unsettling to find himself in the midst of such turmoil now. 

Someone punches his shoulder from behind, hard. Victor turns, ready to snap with furious righteousness at whoever would presume to lay hands on a prince, and finds his cousin Yuri.

Yuri’s green eyes are narrower than ever, full of disgust. His golden hair is out of his face for once, pulled back and held with a jeweled pin, and he stands more upright than before, with less of his old indifferent slouch.

“Your father needs a new heir,” Yuri says. 

Victor just frowns at him.

“Since the crown prince is dead,” Yuri says, with a toss of his head. “Or good as, to a Targaryen. When did you get so _soft_?”

Victor has so much to say to him. That he was always soft, but never allowed to be. That Yuri could be soft too, if only he let himself. That the world doesn’t have to be battles and intrigue and being wakened at night by armed men dragging you from bed on your father’s orders. That there are warm waters and spiced wine and harpsong and families who love each other, however they show it. 

He wonders, suddenly, what lessons Yuri has been receiving of late.

“I’m sorry,” Victor says, softly. “Defeating me here would have meant a lot to you, wouldn’t it?”

Yuri scowls. “Not everything is about you, cousin.”

Victor remembers that day in the Winterfell training yard, when Yuri spoke about his ambition to captain Victor’s Kingsguard one day. Now Victor smiles, slow and sardonic, and reaches out to grasp his cousin’s shoulder. From a distance it might look friendly, but he lets his fingertips dig in, gripping tight. He wishes he could hold even harder, shaking some sense into Yuri. 

“I’m going to defeat your pet barbarian, anyway,” Yuri says, through clenched teeth, grimacing. “It’s so sweet you’re exchanging _favors_ now. That handkerchief is the ugliest thing I’ve ever seen you wear.”

Victor looks at him a moment longer, and then slowly lets go. The fierce anger in him is hot and alarming, like wildfire that could burn out of control if he ever stopped smiling. It's not for himself but for Yuuri, and for the coldness of the world.

“You’ve changed,” Yuri says, wrenching his shoulder. He takes a step back, turning. “That place changed you.”

Victor watches him walk away. _It wasn’t just a place that changed me_ , he thinks.

*****

Hours later Victor climbs the stairs, head dull with wine and feet slow with heavy thoughts. He enters the chamber quietly to find only a single taper left burning on the washstand and the window slightly ajar, cool night air coming in. Victor shivers for a moment, and then goes to fasten the casement.

He turns and regards Yuuri, sleeping on the far side of the bed. Yuuri’s a tidy sleeper, limbs tucked in and his head on the pillow, though there’s the faint glistening of moisture at the corner of his mouth and the soft suggestion of a snore. With Yuuri’s eyes closed and his body at rest for once, Victor realizes how tense Yuuri normally is; those big, watchful amber eyes standing out in that pale face, his body rigid and anxious. Yuuri wants to do the right thing, always, and Victor’s learning just how loud and cruel the voices inside his head are. It must be exhausting, to live on such a knife’s edge, yet Yuuri seems to burn brighter the harder he’s pressed, brilliant and beautiful.

He’s nothing like the careless, teasing young man Victor met last year, though, and Victor lets out a long, soundless sigh, his shoulders slumping as he leans back against the wall and shuts his eyes. 

Everything he felt and knew feels like a dream now, slipping away like water in his hands. Yuuri remembers nothing. Meant nothing by it. Or perhaps it was Victor who meant so little that Yuuri didn’t even recall his own laughing, whispered promise — _come visit me, stay with me,_ teach _me, please_.

Victor built something on those words, during those feverish months after the tourney, and in the confusing time since he took on training Yuuri he’s always come back to that moment. Yuuri flushed and sweaty and smiling in his arms, the cant of his hips and the frank desire in his eyes. Victor could have bedded him that night, he’s sure of it. He didn’t, for so many reasons, but now he wonders how it would have been in the morning — would Yuuri have even remembered how he came to be in the prince’s chambers? Or would he have been as stunned and abashed as he was when he came upon Victor in the Winterfell godswood springs?

Heat rushes into Victor’s face and he clenches his jaw, remembering every single thing he’s done with the expectation that Yuuri understood the meaning behind it. Every gesture, every touch, every quiet, knowing insinuation. Yuuri must have thought — 

Victor covers his hot face with his hands, shaking his head. There’s no sense in dwelling on this tonight. After their kiss he has to believe Yuuri feels something for him, but it must be fragile and new, nothing like the long-cherished desire that Victor’s been tending. No wonder Yuuri’s been so withdrawn in the days since; he must feel the enormous gap between their emotions.

Victor takes a good, deep, clean breath, and begins to undress for bed. He glances over at Yuuri again, still sleeping in quiet repose, and envies him that peace. Victor won’t disturb it tomorrow; won’t elaborate on the story Chris told so baldly, giving him the whole of what transpired. The tourney is too important to embark on untangling this now, not when they each have so much to prove.

Someday soon perhaps, when they can face each other on calm, even ground, beginning to explore the connection between them, Victor will tell Yuuri what that night meant. How the memory stayed with him, how that invitation seemed like the one path out of his unbearable situation at court, a reckless escape into another world. How Yuuri’s been like a wild, fresh wind in his life, and at the same time, something warm and settled and sustaining. How much Victor’s been changed for the better by it.

For now, though, they’ll have to be as they’ve been. Victor climbs into bed, pulling the sheets up to and rolling onto his side, facing Yuuri. They both fell asleep quickly last night, exhausted from the morning’s battle and the journey after, and he didn’t have time for this, appreciating Yuuri’s closeness. Victor hasn’t shared a bed with another person since he was small, held in his beloved nanny’s arms, and he’d forgotten the close warmth, the sense of being intimately vulnerable and near. 

Yuuri makes a soft noise, shifting restlessly, turning his head until a shaft of moonlight falls across his face. At the end of the bed, Makkachin shifts too, curled at Yuuri’s feet, tail thumping. Victor’s eyelids are heavy, but he lies there a long while, just watching his beloved sleep.


	7. Seven - Yuuri

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First day of the tourney at last! Lots of jousting and side characters within, plus some plot and obviously romantic subtext. Things start moving away from the YOI storyline more definitely now.
> 
> Thanks to someitems for looking over the chapter and discussing the story, and to everyone who’s been reading along and encouraging. It’s very much appreciated. :)

Yuuri is having the same nightmare he always does before the start of a tourney. The faceless knight with eyes of flame pursues him through the dark, while all around a castle burns. Sometimes the castle changes, but usually it’s Winterfell, his home crumbling in fiery ruins as Yuuri cowers, defenseless and weaponless, from the inevitable final strike. 

This morning he awakens panting, with Victor’s hand on his chest. It’s a surprising, comforting weight, and Yuuri lies there for a minute, eyes closed as he comes back to himself. He can feel Victor’s warm presence, and he wishes he could stay here in this wide bed, this sunny and secluded chamber, this breathless moment of relief. 

Then he opens his eyes again. Victor is looking down, his loose silver hair a sunlit corona around his head, his sky-colored eyes tender and concerned. Yuuri wants him more than ever, in every possible way. To draw him down into a kiss, to spend the day in bed, to whisper truths about himself. It feels like that desire never goes away, only strengthens the longer they’re together.

It’s the morning of the joust, though, so Yuuri sighs and stretches, quirking a small smile before he rolls away. “Sorry.”

“What for?” he hears Victor ask behind him, as he sits up and puts his feet on the chilly stone floor.

Yuuri shakes his head. “Sometimes I have nightmares. I’m sorry if I disturbed you.”

He rises and goes to the washstand. He could call a servant to bring him hot water, but he uses the cold water already in the jug, shivering at the fresh, shocking feel of it against his face. He needs a strong sensation like this to ground himself, something distracting to keep him from dwelling on yesterday, and especially on last night.

 _Oh, you danced_ , he hears as he scrubs his face, in Christophe Lannister’s mocking tones. Yuuri’s face goes hot, despite the freezing water, and he scrubs harder. _No man will be allowed to best the prince’s paramour_ , drifts through his mind, in Kenjirou’s high, worried voice. Yuuri splashes his face again, shivering.

 _Be as you are_ , says Victor, calmly, inside his head. Yuuri nods to himself, then dries his face with a towel and turns around.

“I want,” he begins, and then stops. “I want to talk.” 

Victor’s still half-reclining in the bed, raised on one elbow and his hair falling everywhere, still illuminated by the sun pouring into the room. He raises his silver eyebrows at Yuuri’s words, brushing back a lock of hair. He looks rumpled and beautiful, and Yuuri aches to go to him, confessing everything, asking the same in return. But: 

“But the tourney matters so much to both of us,” he says in a rush. “Can we talk when it’s all over?” Yuuri stops for a moment, as it strikes him that in a few days’ time, the tourney will finish and perhaps everything will change. He imagines going on to another competitions, facing his opponents alone, without the strange but unwavering support he’s come to rely on from Victor. 

Victor looks at him for a long moment, like he knows what Yuuri’s thinking, and then nods. “I want to talk, too,” he says, his voice low and rich. “But it can wait. My feelings won’t change so quickly.”

He smiles, and a thrill goes through Yuuri. This is the first time they’ve acknowledged anything like a mutual understanding, an awareness of each other beyond teacher and student, prince and banner lord. It’s hard to imagine it’s real, and perhaps it isn’t — it could be that Victor wants to let him down easy, or explain how he misunderstood Christophe’s words. Perhaps Victor came to Winterfell in spite of whatever Yuuri did that night, not because of it.

But Victor’s still smiling at him from the bed, and it’s the morning of the joust, and he has to put all of this aside for now.

They wash and dress in focused, companionable silence. They’ve shared a pavilion on the road before but never a bed, and Yuuri wishes the circumstances were different so he could appreciate it more. He went to sleep alone last night, head filled with all the strange and unsettling events of the day, and he’s woken up to more of the same. Victor’s favor is still on the chest where he left it, the white cambric handkerchief scented with Victor’s cool and spicy cologne, but downstairs Kenjirou is waiting with a bandage round his jaw and two enemies in the tourney. Being the subject of Lannister comic songs for his forgotten drunken antics is actually rather low on Yuuri’s list of concerns today.

Yuuri can handle taunting from southerners, or even outright aggression; he’s come to expect it, even. But he can’t stop thinking about Kenjirou last night, wet with rainwater and covered in straw, his jaw beginning to swell from a blow. Kenjirou is his squire, under his protection, and he feels sick that he couldn’t protect him, and that he didn’t even know he needed to. 

They breakfast in their rooms, a prince’s prerogative that Yuuri’s grateful for. He doesn’t want to face everyone below; the people at their table last night who heard Christophe’s story, the knights who attacked Kenjirou, or even Phichit. He might find himself tilting against any one of them in the competition today, and Yuuri needs to make space, putting aside friendship and stepping into his tourney self. 

He knows Victor’s watching him as they eat. Makkachin is waiting at his feet patiently, hoping for the scraps Yuuri gives her, but Yuuri’s eating slowly, the food tasteless and difficult to swallow. It always strikes him as ironic, that the one time he scarcely wants to eat is the time he needs it most, before a competition.

“Less porridge, more ham,” Victor says, quietly, and Yuuri glances up at him with a frown. “Sits in your stomach like a rock,” Victor explains. “Meat is better before a competition.”

Yuuri rolls his eyes a little — he’s never noticed what he eats making much of a difference in how he competes — but he takes two more slices with his knife, and one for Makkachin too. She woofs happily, swallowing it down, and now Victor rolls his eyes. 

“You’re spoiling her,” he says. 

Yuuri snorts. He’s seen Victor feed her an entire roast quail, bit by delicate bit.

He finishes his breakfast, and then lays his napkin down, slowly. “I want to try something new today,” he says, clearing his throat. “Your finishing move, the delayed thrust you used on Ser Martendale at the Maidenpool tourney?”

Victor frowns, chewing a mouthful of bread. “I believe we tried that before,” he says as he swallows. “It didn't go so well.”

Yuuri shrugs. “I’ll keep it in my back pocket. It would be good in the later rounds, to have a move no one’s seen from me before.” Victor's still frowning at him, and he adds, “Besides, wouldn't you like to see me unhorse an opponent with your own move?”

At that, Victor smiles at last, his brow smoothing out. “Of course,” he says. “I hope you can show me that.” He pauses. “It's good to see you making decisions for yourself, Yuuri,” he says, softly. “You've changed so much since we met.”

Yuuri looks back at him, feeling warm all over. He can't speak, but he nods.

They both rise then, gathering their things and preparing to depart. Yuuri lingers just a moment, glancing around the room. It feel safe here, away from the troubles of the world outside. He finds, though, that he doesn’t want to stay here; for the first time in a long while he’s actually looking forward to the competition, riding onto the field and choosing his destiny. It’s a new thing, this belief in his own strength, and the desire to test it, too. 

“Yuuri?” Victor asks. He touches Yuuri’s arm.

Victor hasn’t given him confidence, Yuuri realizes, but he’s been there while Yuuri found it for himself, and somehow that’s more important than anything. People have believed in Yuuri before, he sees that now, but Victor was the first person who made Yuuri believe, too.

Yuuri nods his head, firmly, and shuts the door behind him. He turns to Victor, his face set. “I’m ready.”

*****

There’s still a bustle in the halls below, servants clearing away and guests still eating or chatting, but most people have left for the tourney now. Yuuri and Victor go into the stable yard, where Kenjirou has Yuuri’s stallion waiting, tack slightly askew, much like Kenjirou’s wild yellow hair.

“The bracket is posted!” Kenjirou says, voice even higher than usual with excitement. “You’ll face Yuri Targaryen in the penultimate round, if he gets that far. But — ” his face falls, scrunching up with concern, and he lowers his voice. “You’ve drawn the seventh match, against Ser Blount. He’s — ”

“One of the men who attacked you last night,” Victor says, laying a hand on Kenjirou’s shoulder. “I looked them up in the heraldry books last night. Men from small banner houses, nothing to worry about. You haven’t made any powerful enemies yet.”

He turns to Yuuri. “Most likely he’ll try to rile you up in the tilt with foolish words. You won’t rise to the bait, I’m sure.”

Yuuri presses his lips together, but nods. He’s come too far to endanger his chances with a quarrel like this, but Kenjirou has a swollen lump on his jaw this morning and Yuuri burns all over again, thinking about it. 

He turns to Kenjirou, who’s waiting with the first piece of armor to be tediously strapped onto his body. He tries to stand still and calm as Kenjirou dresses him, but the nerves of an impending competition are on him, quickening his breath and his heart. Victor isn’t helping either, standing off to the side and studying them contemplatively, a finger on his chin. Occasionally he leans in to straighten a piece of armor or tighten a strap, until Yuuri feels more like a project being completed than a knight.

Finally he’s completely clad in his armor, fitting his helm over his head but leaving the visor up. Kenjirou takes the reins of Yuuri’s black charger, and they join the crowds streaming over the road to the tilting grounds. 

It’s strange, walking this path with Prince Victor, alone and unguarded. Victor hasn’t made any effort to disguise himself, letting his loose silver hair flow down his back, glinting in the sun, and he seems in a fine mood, smiling at nobles and common beggars alike. Yuuri wonder how he feels being at a tourney as an observer, not a mail-clad knight himself, with his name first in the lists. If he feels any sorrow or regret, he isn’t showing it.

In the distance Yuuri sees the long wooden stands, arranged in a rough oval beneath a multicolored silk roof, with flags flapping gaily in the wind over the entrance. He hears Kenjirou catch his breath in admiration, and smiles to himself. He’s glad someone at least is enjoying this.

“Shall we see the opening ceremony?” Victor asks. “I never get to.”

Yuuri doesn’t really want to, and he feels badly leaving Kenjirou outside with his mount, but he nods. Victor seems high-spirited today, eyes a little too bright and color in his cheeks, and Yuuri doesn’t like to disagree with him in this mood. They follow the crowd into the stands and take their place with the smallfolk before the rail, just in time to see the master of ceremonies take his place on the middle of the field.

The lower boxes are full of noble and wealthy viewers, clad in an array of bright colors. In the stands above them crowd the commoners, in plain homespun but full of raucous cheers and energy. It seems like there are more people here than he remembers from his last tourney.

“Welcome,” bellows the master of ceremonies, and the crowd quiets some. “By grace of House Whent, and by royal favor of King Aerys the Second, we open the great tourney of Harrenhal!”

The crowd roars again. Yuuri’s eyes drift until they find the royal box, hung with black cloths to shield the king from the tourney-goers around him, noble as they are. King Aerys is seated so far back that Yuuri can hardly see him, just glimpse a long tangled beard and two bright eyes above it, with the faint glint of a crown.

Victor’s father. Yuuri wonders if he can see his son, pressed down here with the common folk and grinning hugely, as though he’s never enjoyed himself more. Victor’s hardly ever spoken of him, and Yuuri wonders, too, what the king thinks of this training partnership. What he’d think if he’d seen his son in the woods two days ago, kissing someone who would never make a suitable royal match. Yuuri swallows, hard, and shifts his gaze.

Out on the field they’re doing some of the traditional mummery, holding aloft a crown of blue roses. The master of ceremonies calls out the name of Lord Whent’s daughter, and she comes down the stands to lean over the rail, blushing, as she’s crowned the queen of love and beauty. Yuuri turns away.

“I know my match isn’t for a while, but I’d like to go prepare myself,” he says to Victor, under the noise of the crowd.

Victor makes a wry face, as if he’d like to stay, but follows Yuuri back out of the arena and around to the breezeway where the competitors will enter. Kenjirou follows, still leading Yuuri’s horse, and they pause outside.

“Let me see your armor,” Victor says, and Yuuri sighs and holds his arms out one more time.

Victor takes his time checking over it, testing the leather straps and readjusting until he’s satisfied. A tilt begins and ends while he’s going through his examination, and Yuuri closes his eyes, trying to imagine who it could be. Otabek Baratheon? Young Guang-Hong Tully, to whom he was nearly betrothed when they were both children, before Leo Arryn was fostered at Riverrun instead? He’s competed against many of the scions of Westeros’s great houses, but it’s always been in the blur of combat; faces hidden behind a helm, concentrating more on sword or lance. He’s never become close to anyone but Phichit.

Victor has always seemed to be close to Christophe Lannister…but then, if Christophe is to be believed, _Yuuri_ appeared close to them last year, too, at least to anyone watching at that banquet. It strikes Yuuri again that everyone here must know the story, even the damned song Christophe was humming last night. His face goes hot, as he tries to imagine being seen that way. It’s a wonder rumor never got back to his family, though he supposes Winterfell is a little far for Westeros gossip.

“You’re ready,” Victor says, breaking into his thoughts. Yuuri looks up at him, seeing his own plain handkerchief pinned to Victor’s shoulder again, and remembers. It’s a little work to extract Victor’s handkerchief from his sleeve, but he tucks it into his belt, making sure the dragon crest faces out. He looks back up to see Victor’s smile.

Victor reaches out and touches the favor, running the tip of his finger over the embroidery. His other hand goes to cover the white cloth at his shoulder, thumb finding the place where Yuuri’s initials are stitched, and he keeps smiling that faint, distant smile. Yuuri watches him, remembering the touch of Victor’s hands on his face when they kissed, and catches his breath.

“You’re ready,” Victor says, again. He steps away.

Yuuri swallows hard, putting memory aside, and turns to Kenjirou, holding the reins of his charger and grinning broadly, eyes alight. Yuuri mounts up, leaning against the high-backed jousting saddle as he reaches down for his helm.

“You’re going to win,” Kenjirou says, confidently, as he hands up the helm. “I’ve told everyone so. Laid a few wagers, too.”

Yuuri groans internally. He’s almost certainly going to cost Kenjirou money, but he can’t say so without seeming ungracious. He glances at Victor before he answers. “Thank you.”

More shouts come from the tilting grounds as he fits his helm on. This battle seems to go quicker, because it’s not long before he hears a victory horn blasting. 

Victor nods. “Look for me in the training masters’ box.”

He leaves, going back inside the arena, and Kenjirou goes through the breezeway to lean on the gate, watching the jousting inside. Yuuri turns his horse away and canters through an empty nearby field, but the sounds of the tilt keep catching his ear. Mostly he hears the noise of the crowd, but there’s the occasional clash of lance against plate, and eventually the thunderous sound of someone being unhorsed. Yuuri wonders who won, and whether he’ll have to face them in the final match. He circles the field, easing into the loping gait of his charger, trying not to listen to the sounds of the next matches. They sound swift too, the challengers meeting with loud clashes and scarcely any time between, and all too soon he hears the victory horn.

He turns around then, and enters the breezeway. It’s louder here, and he’s just in time to watch the next challengers ride through the gate, being announced by the master of ceremonies.

“Ser Seung-Gil Greyjoy of Pyke!” He hears, and the crowd makes a slight murmur. The Iron Islands hold themselves apart from the mainland of Westeros, their ways strange and little-known, and the hostility tends to be mutual.

“Guang-Hong Tully of Riverrun!” There’s slightly more applause — Riverrun isn’t far from Harrenhal — but Guang-Hong is still new to the tourney circuit and hasn’t won many fans.

Yuuri stays where he is, sheltered in the breezeway between two high walls of wooden stands. He hears the cheers as they begin their first pass, and the telltale sound of a wooden lance splintering. The crowd gasps, and the horn blows immediately. 

“The victor is Ser Seung-Gil Greyjoy!” comes from the master of ceremonies, and Yuuri’s chest squeezes tight. He expected more time to prepare himself 

Yuuri swallows hard, forcing down the fear of the moment. For the first time he turns and sees the man he’s about to face mounted upon his own charger, waiting. The competitors are leaving the grounds on the far side; Guang-Hong remounted now and carrying the remains of his shattered lance, slumped forward in defeat. Yuuri takes a deep breath, and rides forward as the gate opens.

He always forgets how loud it is, out here in the midst of a crowded tourney arena. The shouts and jeers and cries, from smallfolk and nobles alike, everyone in the stands caught up in the bloodlust of the fight. It rises above him like a storm, thundering and overwhelming, and he’s the focus of all that noise. Yuuri tries to sit up straight and tall, seeming unperturbed in his heavy armor, flicking the reins so his horse steps high and proud. 

“Ser Yuuri!” he hears, faintly, from the crowd. It doesn’t sound like Kenjirou, and he feels a small glow, thinking there’s at least someone on his side. Perhaps it’s his sister or Maestra Minako, but even that gives him strength. It’s good to have them here with him at last, at this most important tourney of his career.

He takes up a position at the near end of the arena, since his opponent is already at the far side. He’s never faced Ser Blount before, and he knows nothing about him, but in his mind he sees that lump on Kenjirou’s face again, the innocent fear and surprise in his eyes after the attack last night, and tightens his jaw. Taking arms against this man will be easy.

“Ser Yuuri Stark of Winterfell, the Winter Swan!” he hears, followed by more cheers and applause than he expected. It’s the first time he’s ever been announced by his new title, and he thinks Victor must have given it to the master of the lists, appellation and all. 

“Ser Richard of House Blount!” comes next, and there’s some polite acclaim from the crowd. 

Yuuri turns to face Ser Blount, who’s grinning at him across the grounds with a smug frankness that feels like a burning arrow to Yuuri’s chest. Ser Blount is taunting him, reminding him of the insult paid last night.

Well, the only way for Yuuri pay it back to is knock Ser Blount right on his ass. Yuuri presses his lips together, giving the man a stony glare, and lowers his visor. The crowd grows louder for a moment, ringing in Yuuri’s ears, and then the horn blows. He shifts his heavy lance in his hand and charges forward.

He’s never cared for the joust. At first there’s far too much time to think, riding at each other and bracing for the collision, and then none at all, absorbing the impact of his opponent’s weapon. Yuuri takes it well on his shoulder-mounted shield, deflecting it aside, and Ser Blount does the same with Yuuri’s lance. They wheel and turn, preparing to face each other again.

It takes two passes before they become entangled, Yuuri’s lance caught under Ser Blount’s shield with the porcupine painted on it. They each pull up their horse short, Ser Blount struggling fruitlessly to free himself. Yuuri pulls backward on his lance, and it’s just coming loose when he hears the other man say, low and mocking, “You ought to put that marsh-rat squire of yours back in the kitchens where he belongs, Stark.”

Yuuri feels that arrow of rage pierce him again, and for a moment he’s tempted to smash the other man in the face with his gauntlet. He just clenches his teeth and yanks harder, leaning back in his saddle until his horse steps away. His long lance pulls free, and Yuuri rides forward past the man to the other side of the grounds, pivoting around.

He’s breathing hard, the sound loud in his helm, even over the growing shouts of the crowd. Ser Blount has turned as well, and he lowers his lance, favoring his shield side. He nods, grimly, and rides forward.

This time Yuuri strikes true. He braces the tremendous impact of his wooden lance against Ser Blount’s plate-mailed chest, every muscle in his arm tensed to keep the momentum going as he rides through. Ser Blount tumbles back, off his charger, and lands with a heavy crash on the dust of the tilting grounds.

A huge roar goes up from the crowd, followed by the victory horn. Yuuri finishes his gallop across the grounds and pulls his horse to a halt, taking heaving breaths. 

“The victor is Ser Yuuri!” shouts the master of ceremonies. 

Yuuri turns, bowing his head slightly to the crowd, and rides back out of the arena again. 

His heart is still pounding, in his chest and in his ears. He hardly even registers the tourney win, hearing the man’s insults in his head again. Out in the breezeway he stops and turns his horse, looking for the next competitors, to see who he might face in the next round. He recognizes the dragon crest on Ser Georgi Targaryen’s shield, and hears the second competitor announced as Leo Arryn of the Erie. Yuuri stays where he is, watching the match; he’s faced Ser Georgi several times, usually winning, but the Arryn boy is new to him. 

“I’m sure your little marsh-rat will be proud of you,” Yuuri hears in his ear, and turns to see Ser Blount has ridden up close. The man’s visor is up, and Yuuri can see his sneering expression now, ugly above an unkempt beard. 

“Too bad his master can only succeed in a tourney now he’s under the prince’s wing.” Ser Blount snorts, gesturing at Yuuri. “Even has you in that old swan outfit. You really think you’re anything like him?”

Yuuri stares at him, hard. Every nerve in his body is screaming to give the man the brawl he wants, but he swallows with difficulty and turns away, back to the grounds where Ser Georgi has just unhorsed his opponent.

Ser Blount laughs as the victory horn sounds. “Like I told your scrawny squire. Only thing that matters in Westeros is how much money you have or who you’re fucking. Looks like you’ve got both, now.”

Yuuri doesn’t turn, but he hears the man spit and ride away. He stares out at the arena until his eyes burn, but he doesn’t blink. 

*****

Yuuri dismounts to watch the next few matches from the competitors’ box, relaxing a little now that he’s made it through the first round and guaranteed his place in the sword competition. He’s never failed to make it before, but today would have been an inopportune day for a first time. 

He can see Victor now, sitting with the other training masters in a lower box. His gleaming silver hair, caught back in a braid now, and fine clothing look incongruous amongst the rough-woven garb of the other men and women. Victor turns around once to smile at him, and then settles in, speaking with a grimacing, grey-haired man Yuuri recognizes as Victor’s own former training master. He sees Ser Celestino down there as well, and glances up again quickly.

The first match pits Jean-Jacques Tyrell against Christophe Lannister, which seems like a fairly even tilt. Christophe is taller but Jean-Jacques is swift and skilled, with a steady balance that makes him hard to unseat. Yuuri glances at the sun, now high in the sky, and thinks the day’s competition will probably take until sundown.

He looks back down just in time to see Tyrell’s lance splinter on the first pass, and Jean-Jacques himself topple off his pure white charger to land squarely in the dirt. Christophe scarcely pauses, riding to the far end of the arena and raising a fist in triumph. Cheers for him come from the crowd, but there’s grumbling, too; the golden Lannisters have many enemies in Westeros, and Jean-Jacques was probably heavily favored amongst the gamblers to win the joust, his strongest suit.

Jean-Jacques climbs to his feet, covered in dust, and hesitates for a moment before raising his hands to the audience. They cheer louder for him, and he pulls off his helm to display a wide grin, acknowledging the applause. Then he catches his horse’s bridle and remounts, riding out of the arena shaking his head.

Yuuri’s impressed in spite of himself, seeing how well the man handled defeat. He’s sure he’s been far less gracious himself, all the times he’s been unceremoniously pushed out of the lists.

Next Phichit rides against Otabek of House Baratheon. Yuuri applauds loudly for Phichit, who turns and smiles at the crowd, waving cheekily, before pulling his visor shut. This match goes on longer, both riders skilled with the lance, and Yuuri knows just how steady Phichit’s seat is. Finally Baratheon catches him square on the chest, overpowering him, and Phichit’s light, lacquered armor doesn’t absorb the blow as well as heavy plate would. Phichit’s knocked sideways, falling well and landing on his feet but unhorsed all the same. 

“Dornishmen shouldn’t compete in the joust,” someone says near him, sitting farther down the bench, and Yuuri turns to see a scowling, violet-eyed man in white plate mail, arms folded over his chest. “It’s a waste of their time, with that stuff they call armor.”

“You’re just cross that he beat you last round,” says a woman sitting next to him, beautiful and dark-haired. She has the same violet eyes, and Yuuri thinks they must be the Daynes of Starfall. Her brother Michele is a member of Aerys’s Kingsguard, he recalls.

The man snorts. “You’ll have to face one of them eventually with your sword,” he says. “I hear the Dornish women tip their daggers with poison.”

His sister frowns and swats him in the shoulder. She turns to the red-haired woman on her other side, pointing to the next competitor. “Look, Mila, there’s your cousin Yuri.”

The woman tosses her head. “Finally. Perhaps he’ll give more of a show than he did last round against that hedge knight. He’s been training like he was possessed for months, ever since he came home from that backwater castle up north.” She squints, peering forward. “Oh, and the Greyjoy again! I liked him, beating the Tully boy in one pass.”

“Yes, he seems very strong,” the other woman says.

“Strong!” the man exclaims, angrily. “Stay away from strong men, Sara. They’re dangerous.”

“Hmph,” Sara says. “I’m strong and dangerous too, you know.”

Yuuri rises then, realizing he should mount up for his own match. He descends the stairs as the names are announced, moving through the crowd. The horses thunder behind him and he hears a tremendous crash, but no victory horn yet. 

They’re still clashing when he reaches the competitors’ entrance again, where Kenjirou stands with his horse. The boy is flushed with excitement, his hair standing up like he’s been tugging at it.

“You shouldn’t have any problem with the prince’s cousin!” he exclaims, as Yuuri puts his foot in the saddle and mounts.

Yuuri frowns. “I won’t face Yuri until the next round,” he says, and then amends, “If I get through this one.”

Kenjirou shakes his wild yellow hair. “Ser Georgi is a more distant cousin. His mother married outside the family, that’s why his hair’s so dark.”

Yuuri nods, remembering the man now. He isn’t well-acquainted with the families of southern Westeros, and still less all the various relations of the Targaryen house. He’s surprised Kenjirou is, though.

“You’ve been studying genealogy,” he says, looking down. “That or Victor’s been talking to you.”

Kenjirou just grins up at him.

Just then the horn sounds from the arena, and he looks over to see Yuri victorious, Seung-Gil still on his hands and knees in the dirt. Greyjoy is slow to rise, looking like he might have injured something, but Yuri faces the crowd, exulting with his raised lance. He lets his white charger rear, then turns and rides hard for the gate, narrowly avoiding Seung-Gil as he limps to the dangling reins of his own horse.

Yuri doesn’t slow as he comes through the competitors’ breezeway, and a few squires and attendants have to leap out of his way as he canters through. Kenjirou steps in close to the sable flank of Yuuri’s horse, and turns to watch him go. When he looks back up, his eyes are fierce.

“You’ll beat him next round for certain,” Kenjirou says, and clenches his fists. “I’ve got ten golden dragons on it.”

Yuuri winces, but turns it into a smile. He also resolves, privately, to find out what Kenjirou’s guardsman’s pay was, and to double it.

The crowd is less daunting this time as he enters the arena, though it’s even louder now. The sun is beginning to dip lower, just visible beneath the great silken tent covering the top of the arena. His opponent rides out immediately behind him and takes the far side, where the sun won’t be in his eyes. Yuuri squints a little, dipping his head so his visor blocks the light better.

“Ser Georgi Targaryen!” the master of ceremonies shouts, and there’s the expected applause for a minor royal cousin. Yuuri’s faced him a time or two, but he’s not a finished warrior, still mostly relying on raw power.

Yuuri’s surprised to hear the force of the cheers for his own name. He nods his head, though, acknowledging them, glad they can’t see him blush inside his helm. The horn blows, sooner than he expected, and his horse charges forward almost without a signal from him. 

Ser Georgi is stronger than the last time Yuuri faced him in a joust, but his aim isn’t much better. Yuuri’s able to dodge his first few blows and absorb the next with his shield, and on the fourth pass he lands a square, solid blow in the middle of Georgi’s chest. Georgi lets out a gasp as he slips sideways from his saddle, and when Yuuri turns around at the other end of the tilting grounds he sees Georgi sitting on the ground, legs splayed out and his hand over his heart, gulping for air.

He knows the man’s just winded, but he still rides cautiously closer, ignoring the shouts of the crowd and the blast of the horn. Yuuri knows there are healers in attendance, and that he should leave the arena and let the next match get on, but when Georgi fumbles for his helm and yanks it off, revealing his sweaty red face and open mouth, he can’t help calling down, “Are you all right?”

Georgi goes redder. “I’m fine,” he says, wheezing. “Go enjoy your victory, Stark. My cousin will finish you off.”

Yuuri sighs, regretting his impulse, and rides out of the arena.

His path to the box is slow, nodding thanks to well-wishers as he goes. This is a strange feeling, having the attention of being a late-round competitor. When he returns to his seat, Ser Georgi is still being helped off the grounds while attendants brush up the dirt in preparation for the last matches, and Victor is leaning over the rail beckoning to him.

Yuuri goes, picking his way down through the crowd. Victor’s smiling at him, leaning his chin on his hand, silver hairs coming loose from his braid and blowing in the wind. Yuuri has to take a moment to compose himself, quieting the part of his mind that just wants to go to Victor and embrace him, returning to that stunning moment two mornings ago when they kissed in the woods. Everything was simple and easy then, Victor’s hands in his hair and Victor’s mouth on his, but there’s so much between now and the possibility of that ever happening again.

“Yuuri,” Victor says, extending a hand to him.

Yuuri takes off his glove and gives him his hand. Victor takes it and brings it to his lips for a moment, blue eyes bright beneath his silver brows. Then he lets go, reaching out to touch the handkerchief tucked into Yuuri’s belt.

“I thought you might have forgotten, in all the excitement,” Victor says, low.

Yuuri shakes his head. Beyond Victor, Christophe Lannister and Otabek Baratheon square off in the arena, lowering their lances in preparation for the charge. There’s a hushed moment, and then the horn blares for the start of the match. They ride hard towards each other, and Yuuri watches their approaches, knowing he’ll face one of them if he’s lucky enough to make it through to the final round.

They each land glancing blows, wheeling for another charge. Yuuri drops his eyes back to Victor. “I haven’t forgotten anything,” he says, and reaches for Victor’s hand again, clasping it tight.

Victor’s eyes widen, and Yuuri’s heart thrills, making Victor look like that. Yuuri just smiles, though, and squeezes Victor’s hand before letting it go. “I should prepare,” he says, and turns away.

*****

His heart is still pounding as he ducks through the doorway and descends the stairs to the breezeway again. So many important things are happening at once, and this hardly seems like it should be the most important, and yet he can’t seem to get it out of his mind. Prince Victor kissed him two days ago, and Yuuri’s wearing his token now, and there’s something waiting for them after this is over, something that makes Yuuri feel light and warm and dizzy all at once when he thinks of it.

But he mustn’t right now. Kenjirou is still waiting below, with his excitable, encouraging grin and his lance prepared for the fight ahead.

Yuuri mounts his horse, feeling like he’s in a dream. He knows that Yuri’s a better jouster than his size would seem to indicate, and he's watched or heard him defeat two older competitors easily today. He thinks of the moves he saw Yuri use earlier, the deadly speed of his horse and arm combined, trying to think of something he can unleash himself, unexpected and final. 

He lets out a soft, surprised laugh. “Of course,” he murmurs to himself.

“Ser?” Kenjirou asks.

Yuuri shakes his head. “I was preparing my attack in my mind. A move I should have thought of before.”

He’s wearing Victor’s old silver swan tabard, and trained by the prince himself. Of course he’ll use the famous finishing move they discussed this morning; an underhanded thrust held back until the very last moment, when all the rushing momentum of his opponent will carry him forward onto the lance.

Yuuri looks up to the arena, where Christophe and Otabek are riding each other down again. This match has gone on a while, and after two previous tilts each of them must be tiring. Christophe has the advantage of size but Yuuri thinks Otabek is cleverer about conserving his energy, and finally on one last pass Otabek heaves his lance forward with immense strength, sending Christophe toppling into the dirt.

The crowd cheers with something like relief, after such a long tilt. The Baratheons don’t have many supporters here today, but the enemies of the Lannisters are many and the applause is loud. Christophe rises gracefully, pulling off his helm to smile and bow to the stands, and his supporters join the cheers. 

Yuuri grits his teeth, shifting in the saddle as his horse steps anxiously, picking up his own tension. Ahead of him he sees Yuri, reining in his similarly restless horse, and as soon as Christophe and Otabek have left the arena, Yuri rides in. Yuuri gives one more glance at Kenjirou, smiling more for the boy than for himself, and brings down his visor as he follows Yuri.

The roar of the crowd is even louder this time, now that it’s the penultimate match. He’s conscious, suddenly, of being _entertainment_ , a spectacle for smallfolk and nobles alike. It’s nothing like those horrible, desperate minutes in the forest clearing two days ago, fighting for Victor’s life and his own, mortally wounding that man, but at the same time the danger remains. He remembers Georgi wheezing on the ground, and a knight he saw several years ago, blood gushing from his thigh where a broken lance found a gap in his armor, life draining from him too fast for any healer to staunch.

Yuuri takes his place at the end of the tilting ground, facing the boy on the other side. They’re both skilled riders, but it wouldn’t take much for this match to end in tragedy. He wants to unseat Yuri, not hurt him, but anything could happen in the heat of the joust

He hears their names announced, and the silvery blast of the trumpet. All the noble pomp of the tourney that entranced him so many years ago, before he knew about the hours of hard work and training involved, the heavy armor and deadly blades, the tedium and ugliness of it. Blisters on his hands, bruises on his body, the heavy soreness and the constant grinding strain of competition, trying to beat another man into submission. It’s his task now to be the spectacle the people want, but there’s so much more to knighthood than that boy idolizing the prince ever dreamed.

For a split second he thinks of Prince Victor as he really is, kind and dreamy and tender, and then his horse charges forward.

Yuri lands a shattering blow against his shield on the first pass, radiating a shock of pain from Yuuri’s shoulder down his arm. It’s like when they faced off in the training yard back at Winterfell, the impact snapping Yuuri back to life. His lance slides upwards as they ride past each other, missing his target, and he groans to himself. They wheel around at opposite ends, coming back for a second pass.

This time he’s able to land his own blow against Yuri’s shield, but Yuri does the same, jarring his shoulder again. Yuri’s seat is steady, he sees, and his horse swift. Yuuri grits his teeth and turns at the near end of the arena, coming back to try again.

They tilt twice more, each weathering the force of the blow, turning aside at the last moment. Yuuri’s breathing hard, holding out against those brutal attacks. This is his least favorite part of jousting, trying to wear down his opponent, pitting their wills against each other. He has stamina, but eventually his concentration always slips.

He doesn’t think Yuri has the strength to outlast him, and that might be how he wins. Yuuri remembers, though, that morning months ago, deciding to _win_ instead of waiting. He hasn’t seen Yuri’s training since, despite his sister’s dark hints, and he doesn’t know what Yuri’s skill is now, but he thinks, turning for another pass, that once again he’d rather say he lost trying.

Yuuri lets his lance go loose in his hand, instead of holding it with the exhausting firm grip he was trained to use. As they gallop towards each other, he finally swings his weapon up, right into the path of Yuri’s charger.

And Yuri — _avoids it_ , swerving sideways, stretching out to land his own blow square against Yuuri’s breastplate.

Yuuri gasps and falls sideways, clutching at the reins. He’s too stunned to remember to grip with his legs, keeping his seat, and there’s the awful sensation of unbalancing, falling, as the ground rushes towards him with a crash.

The roar of the crowd is deafening as he lies there a moment, stunned. He pushes himself onto his hands, leaning forward, panting for breath. He isn’t winded like Georgi, though his chest will ache tomorrow; only suddenly exhausted, spent. He never expected to win the entire joust, but he’s stunned to realize how much he _wanted_ to.

He can still hear the cheering in the stands, louder, like Yuri is encouraging them. The victory horn is shrill, brassy-sounding now instead of silver. With an effort, Yuuri gets to his feet, reaching out to collect his heavy lance. His horse is still close, pawing at the ground, and they’re at the near end of the arena, so he simply takes the reins and walks out, carrying his weapon with him.

Kenjirou is waiting for him, and Yuuri dreads facing him. Not so much for the lost bet as for the disappointment he knows will be on the boy’s face, seeing the true limits of his so-called hero. This is why he’s never wanted to carry the weight of anyone’s expectations

Yuur is rather short-sighted, so he can’t see Kenjirou’s expression until he draws closer, but his squire doesn’t look crushed as he expected. Not exultant like before, of course, but the boy is still smiling broadly, a hand out for Yuuri’s lance.

“You lasted longer against him than any of the other knights did!” Kenjirou says, with obvious pleasure. “If you go farther than this tomorrow, you’re sure to win the tourney.” There’s a noise of a horse passing behind them, and Kenjirou looks up. “Besides, I think Ser Otabek might be able to defeat him, and I know you’re a better swordsman than _him_.”

Yuuri smiles, wearily. Phichit often talked like this, trying to cheer him up, but he was light-hearted and focused on his own training besides. It’s surprising how much of a comfort it is to hear the words from someone else, even just a squire.

The sick feeling of defeat doesn’t leave him, though, as he pulls off his helm and ascends to the competitors’ box once more. Christophe is there now, and Jean-Jacques sitting several rows above with a beautiful, pale dark-haired woman, looking serene as she caresses his arm. Ser Georgi has joined the red-haired girl Mila, whom Yuuri realizes must be his cousin as well, and Seung-Gil Greyjoy sits alone at the top of the stands, eyes focused on the grounds below. They’ll all compete in the sword bout in two days’ time, along with Phichit, who’s standing near the front of the box and chatting over the rail with Victor like he’s known him his whole life.

When Yuuri enters the box, Phichit turns and waves at him. “Come sit with us!” he calls. “Prince Victor has been telling me all about your training. He says he never told you to try _that_ move.”

“Well, we discussed it,” Victor says, as Yuuri comes closer, sitting next to Phichit on the bench. “I thought we agreed the likelihood of success was low.”

He fixes Yuuri with a look, and Yuuri simply looks back, feeling the flush in his cheeks. 

“I thought you'd like to see me try,” Yuuri says, lifting his chin.

“Ahh,” Victor says, but he's smiling now. “At least you're through to the next competition, even if you're in fourth place.”

Behind him, the final tilt is starting, and he turns around, leaning against the dividing wall between their boxes. Otabek and Yuri are announced to appreciative applause, if not over-enthusiastic, and the horn blares to begin.

Yuuri knows he should be watching carefully, trying to learn more about their fighting styles, particularly Otabek’s. If all goes well, in he’ll be facing one of them in the final round of the tourney in two days. But as the combatants ride towards each other he’s watching Victor, standing below him. How Victor’s eyes are fixed on his cousin, through the first pass now and wheeling for another go, lance held high. The plume streams back from Yuri’s helmet as he rides, smooth and well-seated, gripping his mount with his knees as he rises to strike.

Victor’s gaze is distant but fixed, and Yuuri can’t help wondering what he’s thinking. If he’s wishing it were his cousin he’d trained instead, here now in the final tilt and not back in fourth place. Or worse, if he’s wishing _he_ were on the proving grounds, riding for the first championship of the tourney. Victor could have beaten them all easily, Yuuri knows. He thinks Victor was tired of those empty, meaningless wins, but surely he thought he was trading them for the glory of coaching his successor.

Yuuri tightens his fists as the combatants clash again. It’s never been so clear to him before how vital it is that he win, not only for himself, but for Victor's honor, too.

Down in the arena, Otabek’s lance is caught under Yuri’s shoulder shield. He manages to free it with an effort that nearly topples him from his horse, and it looks as if he’s still struggling to regain his seat as they ride off in opposite directions, turning for the charge again. They ride hard at each other, but Otabek is still listing to the side, and Yuri clearly sees it. He aims sure and true for Otabek’s shoulder, and though the man makes a valiant effort to stay on his mount, the force of gravity and the weight of his own armor pulls him down.

The stands erupt in cheers, more genuine now than before. Yuri turns and raises his fist to the ground, still holding his heavy lance under his arm. He raises his visor to bare his face, and Yuuri sees him grinning broadly, looking a little dazed by the noise of the crowd.

“I think he's the youngest ever to win the joust here,” Phichit says, from beside Yuuri. “Not bad for his first tourney,”

“No,” Yuuri says, shaking his head. He’s still watching Victor, climbing down the stands to wave at Yuri over the arena wall. Yuri comes over, pulling off his helm and leaving his lance on the field. His sweaty, golden hair is braided back out of his face on either side now, and he doesn’t look older so much as sharper, finer. Whatever training he’s been doing, it’s honed him into something fierce and almost unreal. Something like Victor.

Yuuri looks away, over to where Otabek is still gathering himself and his gear. A young man is on the field with him, presumably his squire, fetching his horse from where it’s wandered off. Otabek gives one glance to where Yuri is talking down to Victor now, tossing his head contemptuously, and then moves towards the gate, carrying his lance with him.

“Did you want to stay for the victory ceremony?” Phichit asks. 

Yuuri shakes his head again. “I think I’m going to my room to rest,” he says, and touches Phichit’s shoulder before leaving. 

He knows Kenjirou will still be in the competitor’s breezeway with his mount and gear, and he makes his way there. From a distance, through the archway, he sees his squire in conversation with someone whose back is to him, wearing full armor. The man must be a competitor, and just as Yuuri realizes who it must be and breaks into a jog down the stairs, Kenjirou takes several stumbling steps back, clearly shoved by the man. 

“You there!” Yuuri shouts.

Ser Blount turns with a nasty expression on his coarse face, something between a scowl and a smirk. Then he reaches out to pat Kenjirou on the head, tousling his hair roughly and yanking his head to the side, before turning and striding away.

Yuuri comes down, breathing hard. “Are you hurt?”

“I’m fine,” Kenjirou says, though his expression is pained. He rubs his head.

“I’m going to kill him,” Yuuri says, with a low growl.

Kenjirou’s eyes widen, first in pleasure and then in dismay. “You know fighting’s forbidden outside the arena!” he says. “They’ll disqualify you. Please don’t do anything for me, I’m all right. Truly.”

Yuuri looks at him, still feeling hot all over, the urge to fight boiling within him. He’s felt this way after losing competitions before, agitated with no good outlet for it, but he’s never wanted to hit something this badly in his life. This is pure rage, nothing like the blank urgency of defending Victor and himself in the woods. He takes a long, deep breath and lets it out, but the fury is still there, simmering.

“I’m going back to my room,” he says, reaching for the reins of his horse.

The sun is beginning to set as he rides back along the road to the castle. Low and orange in the sky, like the embers of a still-burning fire.

*****

No one knows he packed the armor and swords except Yuuko and Victor. Wrapped in layers of chamois and linen, the folded pile of lacquered iron plates fits well in the corner of his trunk. Yuuri could hardly say why he brought it with him, except it seemed like a part of Winterfell, of his family and his history, and like maybe it would bring him some measure of good fortune. 

There’s a second set of armor and another katana besides, and he doesn’t think any harder about why he brought two. He remembers a time, months ago, when Victor seemed taken with Yuuri’s mastery of the ancient sword. Yuuri didn’t let himself linger over the praise, choosing to move onto Victor’s strength with the broadsword, but Maestra Minako said Victor had promise. Perhaps someday Yuuri can train Victor instead, reversing their roles.

He unpacks the wooden helmet as well, and the stiff, coarse-woven tabard. He runs his fingers over the crimson embroidery, unfaded by the years, showing a grinning face carved into one of the heart trees found in every northern godswood. Yuuri closes his eyes and thinks of that creamy white bark, the red leaves and the red sap that oozes and dries when cut, and of the ancient faces carved by the Children of the Forest, long before they faded into the woods themselves.

 _The Knight of the Laughing Tree_ , he thinks, though he’ll never be announced at any tourney that way. It’s what Yuuko called him when he wore this armor during their play, swinging too-sharp katanas at each other, reliving the ancient battles. It’s the right armor for now, and the right name.

He removes his plate mail slowly and clumsily, without Kenjirou here to help. The kikko mail is easier to put on by himself, small hexagonal plates draping and clinging to his body like they were made for him. This armor has never seen a real battle, but as he settles the kabuto helm on his head, domed leather with a wide wooden brim, Yuuri thinks there’s no fitter gear for avenging a son of the north.

The castle is bustling with people as he descends the stairs, but it’s twilight now and in the torchlight no one looks closely at him. He doesn’t see Victor or Kenjirou amongst the crowds streaming over the fields coming back from the arena, and he’s glad of it. He only hopes he can accomplish his task and return before Victor grows too suspicious of his absence.

He walks to the tents on the far side of the grounds, where the smallfolk and lesser knights are staying. Here, the people gathered around their campfires do stare, probably at the unfamiliar armor, or the red cloth mask covering the lower portion of his face. Yuuri keeps walking, looking for the porcupine sigil he remembers from this morning. 

When he finds it at last, Ser Blount isn’t alone.

“We’ve been waiting for you,” the man says, gesturing to the armored knights on either side of him. One wearing a pitchfork sigil, and the other a surcoat embroidered with two towers, the symbol of the Frey family. All three are standing in front of the tent by the fire, swords sheathed. Yuuri wonders if they’re tourney blades, or if they hold real edges. He swallows, hard.

“Good,” Yuuri says. “Then you won’t demand the formality of a challenge.” He’s reaching for his own sword as he speaks, and the three knights are as well.

Ser Blount spits, some of it ending up in his rusty, unkempt beard. He wipes his chin, shaking his head. “Not much for formalities, myself,” he says.

They draw their blades.

Yuuri may be wearing the ancient armor of the First Men, but the weapon at his side is his tourney sword, not a katana. He’s no fool. Or, he thinks, as he raises his blade to counter a blow from the pitchfork knight, just fool enough to seek out this fight, not enough to commit murder. A sharpened katana is no weapon for a duel of honor. 

He shoves the other man back and whirls around to face Ser Frey, coming in behind him. 

“Surprised to see you out of the prince’s bed,” the man snarls, thrusting hard with his sword. “Or have you curried enough favor for the barbarian north?”

Yuuri dodges, moving fast. The blade slides along the mail at his shoulder and he can feel the sharp edges of it, not blunted like his. These knights came to do battle.

It’s like a joke made by the gods, defending himself against these men who believe he has some unfairly gotten favor with the royal court. If only they knew how little sway he really has with Victor.

Ser Blount has joined the fray now, and Yuuri’s almost too slow to block a cut to his midsection, wickedly aimed. He doesn’t know if they really mean to kill him, or merely frighten him off, but he doesn’t care to find out this way.

He takes in a deep breath and closes his eyes for a moment before exploding into action. The men have him surrounded now, and he spins fast, dealing an attack to each of them as he goes. A kick to the knee, a shoulder to the chest, a sword thrust knocking down an upraised arm. He does it again and again, holding them off, hoping to wound one of them badly enough to let him get his breath for a moment.

He jabs with his elbow, high, into someone's unprotected throat. The pitchfork sigil disappears from his sight, the man wheezing off somewhere to the side, out of the circle of firelight. Yuuri gasps, stepping back, and then raises his sword to the two men left, glancing between them. Ser Frey’s sword arm is dangling and loose, like one of Yuuri’s blows to his shoulder found home, but Ser Blount is advancing on him, weapon in hand. 

“He’s fast,” Ser Blount says, grinning. “Almost as fast as his little rat of a squire. Still got him in the end.”

Heat courses through Yuuri, but he holds himself in check, turning to the other man. He dashes forward with a swift cut, smashing down against the man’s injured shoulder and hoping he guessed right. Ser Frey howls, dropping his sword, and Yuuri nods with satisfaction, turning just in time for Ser Blount to deliver a punishing blow to his helm from behind.

Yuuri’s ears ring with the force of the impact, seeing stars. He staggers, going to one knee, and then rolls forward onto his shoulder to move out of the way of another blow, catching it on his raised buckler. Pain radiates up his arm but he finishes rolling over into a crouch, a move he can only do because of the flexible chain mail, and springs to his feet, a little ways off from Ser Blount. 

The man laughs at him, already coming in for another attack. “Tricks,” he says. “I’m sure that’s all you do for the prince, too.”

“Shut up,” Yuuri says, unable to help himself. His ears are still ringing, his head buzzing, and his cloth mask is slipping askew. He brandishes his sword at Ser Blount, eyeing the sharp edges of the other man’s weapon compared with his own. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Ser Blount steps forward, his eyes glinting dangerously. “Did you think it was love? That a northerner like you could ever share the royal dais with a Targaryen? The Iron Throne only seats one.”

Yuuri shakes his aching head. This is outrageous, the man saying things aloud that he hasn't even thought before, not in his wildest boyhood fantasies. He’s never truly imagined he could have Victor for his own, and he feels a sick shame, humiliated by the knight’s words. “He’s simply my training master. Nothing more.”

Ser Blount laughs again. “This is Westeros, boy. Nothing is simple. You’ve caught a dragon by the toe; be careful you don’t get burned.”

Yuuri stares at him for a moment, readying himself for the attack again, when he hears footsteps, and a voice call out, “Yuuri!”

They both turn to see Victor running up, wrapped in a dark cloak and carrying a lantern. Kenjirou is behind him, his face pale and anxious in the lamplight. “Ser Stark!”

Ser Blount snorts, and Yuuri looks back as he lowers his sword. “The prince has come to your rescue, I see. I'd watch out for what kind of impression you’re giving.” He spits, clearing his beard this time. “And tell that squire of yours to watch his mouth.”

He sheathes his sword and goes over to Ser Frey, still lying groaning on the ground and clutching his shoulder. Yuuri feels a brief stab of guilt, knowing he’s responsible for that injury, and then turns back to face Victor.

“What,” Victor says, his eyes wide and his face blank in the light of the campfire. “Yuuri, what…” He breaks off, looking around them. 

For the first time Yuuri realizes people from neighboring camps have gathered around to watch the fight. He ducks his head, sheathing his sword now too, and adjusts the cloth mask across his face. Ser Blount’s words echo in his aching head, about the impression he's giving, and he realizes Victor shouldn't be here, out in public and unguarded.

“Let’s go back to the castle,” Yuuri says, and takes three steps before he swoons.

******

When he opens his eyes, the first thing he sees is a profusion of candlelight and white linen hanging around him. He blinks and sees that he’s back in their chamber, lying in the high four poster bed with the curtains pulled shut. Yuuri swallows hard, his throat dry, and turns his head to see Victor sitting on the other side of the bed, back against the headboard, looking down as though he’s been watching Yuuri.

“You’re awake,” Victor says, softly.

Yuuri blinks again, about to point out the obviousness of the remark, but Victor lets out a long sigh of relief and reaches down to touch Yuuri’s cheek, resting the back of his hand against it. There’s a look in Victor’s eyes that’s both fierce and tender, and Yuuri’s still too stunned and dizzy to do more than lie here for the moment, taking it in. 

“How long was I out?” Yuuri asks at last, his voice raspy.

Victor stirs, lifting his hand and smoothing the blankets pulled up over Yuuri’s chest. “Not too long, but long enough. The healer said you’d likely wake up on your own tonight, or not at all. That’s a nasty lump on your head.”

He smiles, but it’s tight and strained. Yuuri pulls one arm out from under the blankets and reaches up to feel the top of his aching head. Touching it sends a spike of pain through him, and he winces, hissing in a breath and taking his hand away.

“I’m sorry for all the trouble,” Yuuri mumbles, getting up on one elbow. He realizes Victor and Kenjirou must have somehow gotten him back to the castle, armor and all, and fetched a healer to the room, too. “Getting me back here, I mean.”

“You’re sorry — for that?” Victor asks, disbelieving.

“I didn’t mean for you to even know I was gone,” Yuuri says. He struggles and sits up all the way, groaning as he moves his arm. His shoulder is almost as painful as his head.

“That much was clear,” Victor says, an icy edge to his voice now, the tender concern from before gone. 

Yuuri leans back against the headboard gingerly and lets out a sigh, closing his eyes. He doesn’t want to talk about this, now or ever, but it’s obvious they’ll have to. “I’m sorry,” he says again. “I didn’t mean to worry you.”

“ _Worry_ me?” Victor says. “Yuuri, you could have been killed. Those men were fighting with sharpened steel, not tourney blades. Couldn’t you tell? What were you thinking?”

Yuuri opens his eyes, turning to Victor. “I was thinking that I’m tired of being the barbarian from the north,” he says, slowly. “I was thinking Kenjirou has never been south of the Neck before, and now all he’ll remember of this tourney is being left in a hogshead of rainwater by three brutes who didn’t like what sigil his master wore.”

“So you weren’t thinking of me at all,” Victor snaps. “Tomorrow is the most important day of your life, and you were brawling in the fields because someone insulted your squire.”

Yuuri just stares at him, still bleary and feverish. “Thinking of you?”

Victor gestures impatiently. “Suppose you were injured to compete? After months of work? How do you think I'd feel?”

Yuuri lets out his breath in a short huff, feeling like he's been punched in the stomach. So that's why Victor is so angry — the regret Yuuri imagined he saw in him today was real. Victor’s sorry about his choice, and then tonight Yuuri did the the worst thing possible, humiliated Victor with this duel on top of losing in the joust.

He opens his mouth to explain, defend himself, but he realizes the crown prince could never understand what it's like to be the younger son of a belittled province, large and rich as the north is. Yuuri sees himself through Victor’s eyes now; tussling with commoners like the barbarian they call him, unhorsed by the cousin who should have been Victor’s protégée instead. Gauche and uncouth, clumsy and desperate.

Yuuri's cheeks burn with shame, and his voice is rough as he makes himself speak. “You’re right. I should have considered your feelings, Your Highness.”

Victor’s brows come down, and he frowns, pressing his lips together. “Yuuri…” he begins, sounding annoyed.

“It’s clear that our training relationship is at an end,” Yuuri goes on, dogged. “I’m sure you’re anxious to return to palace life. Your Highness,” he adds, with a vindictive thrill.

Now Victor just stares at him, breathing hard. His nostrils flare, and his face is even paler than usual. He licks his lips. “I take it you’re dismissing me from your service, after tomorrow.”

His words strike Yuuri with bitter humor — since when has he ever claimed Prince Victor Targaryen as his _servant_? — but he just nods. Best to salvage what honor he can. “Your compensation — ”

It’s Victor who laughs instead, short and biting. “We can discuss _my compensation_ later. After we both get some sleep.” He shakes his head and turns over, sliding beneath the blankets and pulling them up to his shoulder. “Put out the light after you wash up, please.”

For a moment, Yuuri stares wildly at Victor’s solid, implacable back, breath whistling in his lungs. Memories — that morning in the woods, the kiss, Victor’s touch as they exchanged favors in the marketplace, his look today before Yuuri’s final joust — all fly through his mind’s eye, leaving his heart aching as much as his head. Regret squeezes his chest, too, for the past, and for what might have been. 

But Victor was never his to keep, Yuuri thinks. In some ways he’s back at the training yard at Winterfell, all those months ago, making the choice to seize his fate. Giving Victor up has to be better than losing him would have been.

Yuuri puts out the candle. The burnt scent lingers long after, and he hears Victor breathing, silent and awake. There’s a heaviness to it, and finally a soft sniffle that sends a chill of horror through Yuuri. 

His heart aches, sharply, thinking of Victor _weeping_ in the dark. Yuuri longs to reach for him, comforting him and explaining everything, but he can’t find the words. It’s clear now that Victor made a mistake, choosing Yuuri to train, and perhaps Yuuri made a mistake, too, thinking they were the same. Thinking he could ever meet Prince Victor on level ground, winning his admiration or anything more than that.

He’ll let Victor go, back to the strange world of the royal court, back to competitions and championships, floating above it all like a water lily on a garden pond. Yuuri’s own mistake was in thinking he could ever have Victor for more than a little while. Heir or not, his portion of the world is in the north, snow and solitude and a steady heart. Winter is always coming, even in the first flush of spring. Yuuri thinks that if Victor is a lily then he must be a sentinel tree, keeping watch grey and faithful and alone, against the day the cold returns.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ASOIAF note: in the books, Ser Arthur and Ashara Dayne really are violet-eyed siblings who were present at the tourney of Harrenhal, which is just one more way the books and YOI mesh oddly well together. :)
> 
>  
> 
> Tumblr: sophia-helix


	8. Eight - Victor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which we firmly leave the YOI storyline behind, and step into a hybrid of ASOIAF history and my own plot. Also: Yuri versus Yuuri, the rematch!
> 
> Thanks as always to someitems for all the audiencing and reading this over. :)

When Victor wakes early the next morning, Yuuri is still sleeping, curled around his pillow with Makkachin at his feet. Victor just watches him for a little while, allowing himself this softness before everything has to be hard and difficult again.

It shook him last night, seeing Yuuri risk so much over a moment’s anger. His safety and well-being, the tourney itself; all that they'd worked for together pushed aside in defense of honor. Victor doesn’t understand it, and that unsettles him more than anything. He was raised to revere the Targaryen name, but only in tourney competition has he found any true connection with his ancestry. The study of the sword feels academic, though, next to Yuuri’s furious, impassioned defense of his squire and his home.

Soon enough Victor will have to wake him, bringing back all the memories of last night, and things will be as they were. No, as they _are_ ; they can never be the same again. Their close, shared partnership on the field, or how they were moving closer to something off it, together, gone in an instant. Yuuri’s made it clear that that’s all over now. 

Victor shouldn’t let himself ache for something that never could have been. Perhaps he was only playing at something all these months, pretending to live a life that’s beyond his reach. Having family, warmth, and love, being free of the concerns he’s always known. Not just the assassins his father feared in his childhood, but the shifting political loyalties of holding a kingdom’s throne, not to mention Aerys’s own instability in recent years. Up at Winterfell, all that seemed like a distant dream, just pieces on a cyvasse board in comparison with the friendly laughter of the great hall, or the fond, lingering look in Yuuri’s eyes after a hard day’s work together. 

But he was a fool to think that Yuuri remembered that banquet night last year, or that he could earn a place in Yuuri’s world. That Yuuri considered training to become a champion of the tourney anywhere near as important as the little battles of the real world, the ones that had seemed to fall away when they were alone. That Victor mattered to him at all.

Victor rolls over, pulling back the bed hangings to look out the window. It’s just growing light now, and there’s a faint, slivered white moon still visible in the pink sky. Three nights they’ve spent in this bed together, and never so much as touched. It’s not what Victor had hoped for.

And now it’s all coming to an end. 

He’s just finished shaving when Yuuri finally wakes, letting out a groan as he stirs. Victor remembers last night again, with a shudder this time. Yuuri lying so pale and still on the muddy ground and later in this bed, his eyelids twitching faintly and the lump on his head hot and swollen. The healer Kenjirou fetched had shrugged, raising her hands after examining him. _He’ll wake up tonight_ , she said, _and if he doesn’t, he probably never will_. She’d wished them luck, then left a sachet of herbs behind. _If he does wake, he’ll need this for the headache, believe me._

Victor should have given it to him last night, but their conversation turned sour and then heartbreaking so fast, it slipped his mind. Behind him, Yuuri groans again, and Victor splashes his face with water once more and turns, shaking his hair out of his eyes.

Yuuri looks terrible. Dark circles under his eyes and his hair rumpled, wearing a pained, cautious frown as if he’s expecting harsh words from Victor. The unfairness of it needles Victor, after Yuuri’s coldness last night, but years of palace training slip smoothly into place, and he speaks as he would to any courtier, bland and polite. 

“The healer left an infusion of herbs for the pain,” he says, expressionless. “I’ll fetch the hot water can, if you like.”

“All right,” Yuuri says, hoarsely. “Thank you.”

When Victor opens the door he finds hot water outside and a kitchen runner already approaching with a breakfast tray. He isn’t very hungry, and he doubts Yuuri is either, but it gives both of them something to do. Yuuri eats in bed, staring off into space, while Victor sits at the table, reading a book. He lounges in his seat, trying to look composed and unconcerned, but he can feel Yuuri’s eyes on him from time to time and it makes him feel unaccountably like weeping, his face growing hot as he struggles through his meal. Everything feels so wrong.

Once he looks over, throat prickling, and catches Yuuri’s eye. The silence in the room is thick and uncomfortable, stretching out, but Yuuri doesn’t say anything. Victor clears his throat and looks away again, taking another fig from the bowl and turning a page.

He watches Yuuri dress, from the corner of his eye. Yuuri’s progress is slow but he doesn’t seem clumsy or dizzy, though he winces when he pulls his shirt over his head, stretching out his sore shoulder. Yuuri’s so much stronger than he looks, and Victor prays that he’s come away from the night’s adventures with nothing more than soreness and bruises.

Finally the room is fully light, the sun risen all the way. Now it’s Yuuri clearing his throat, low and hesitant. “I think I’ll go practice in the yard. You don’t have to come with me.”

Victor’s throat goes so tight it hurts. He wouldn’t have suggested accompanying him, but Yuuri closing off the possibility brings the pain of loss flaring sharp again. He looks up from his book. “Of course,” he says, as smooth as before, betraying nothing of what he feels. “I’ll join you for lunch below. We’ll need to discuss your strategy.”

“All right,” Yuuri says. He hesitates, like he wants to say something more, and then presses his lips together and turns away.

Victor loses himself in his book for a time. He’s always been able to do that since he was small, the tales of days past enchanting him, and music too, especially his own. His harp is wrapped and packed in the bottom of one of these trunks, though, and he doesn’t feel much like touching it now. He spent the journey here retelling an old romance with a happier ending, hoping to catch Yuuri’s attention with it, but each night it seemed like Yuuri’s mind wandered further away, his gaze fixed somewhere in the stars. It feels as though Victor’s been chasing him right from the start, and yet Yuuri’s always been drifting somewhere a little ahead of him, out of reach.

The sharp knock makes Victor jump, startled. He blinks, realizing the sun is almost overhead, and then gets up to open the door.

It’s his father.

“We’ve come to lunch with you,” Aerys says, and motions to a servant behind him without looking.

Victor, startled, takes a step backwards. More servants come into the room, carrying covered platters of food and all the clutter his father takes with him everywhere, including his favorite chair. One man walks by carrying a familiar carved wooden box, and Victor whips his head back around.

“You brought the dragon eggs?” Victor asks, confused.

Aerys seats himself at the table, now dressed with a fresh cloth embroidered with the royal crest. “They are always with us, now.” He lowers his voice and looks around, even though they’re surrounded by only his most trusted servants. “They’re…. _changing_. We think something might be about to happen with them.”

He looks like a gleeful young boy, but the expression is chilling on his hungry, hunted face, with the long hair and overgrown beard, the heavy circles beneath his eyes. Victor shivers, then pulls himself together.

“Well, lunch with my royal father is always an honor,” he says, smoothly, and pulls out a chair for himself on the opposite side of the table. That his father hasn’t washed more than his feet recently is all too obvious.

The servants lay the table, setting out the dishes of food and golden plates before each of them, and then withdraw, closing the door behind them. Victor knows they won’t go far, and that members of his father’s Kingsguard will be waiting outside as well. 

He helps himself to food, taking a squab breast and a pile of roasted vegetables, and tears off a piece of soft white bread. Aerys takes nothing but meat, which he proceeds to tear into tiny pieces without eating any, between long swallows of wine that stain his teeth red. He stares out the window behind Victor, his blue eyes milky and fixed.

“So,” Victor says at last, lightly. Silence with his father lasts until his father chooses to break it, but sometimes Victor speaks first, even if he’s only speaking to himself.

This time, though, Aerys looks back at him, gaze sharpening the way Victor remembers from his childhood. “Are you sleeping with that boy?”

Victor blinks, slowly. “Boy?”

Aerys waves a hand impatiently. “The one you chose waste your time training instead of your bastard cousin.”

Victor nods slowly, like he’s just comprehending. “Ah, Ser Yuuri Stark. No, not unless you mean literally.” He gestures towards the enormous bed, letting a smile quirk up the side of his mouth. As if they were any ordinary father and son, jesting between themselves, instead of king and prince, with this furious, deadly tension hanging over them like a sword.

“Good. It’s enough you’ve given up competing, without debasing yourself like that.” Aerys lets out a noisy sigh, settling himself back in his chair, and reaches up to scratch his head, beneath the tangled silver hair. “We take it you’ll be entering the next tourney in your own name?”

Victor takes a bite of squab, chewing deliberately. He swallows. “I haven’t decided yet.”

Aerys rolls his eyes. “No matter. We’ve come here to discuss the matter of the rumors.”

“Rumors?”

“Of your supposed rebellion.” Victor opens his mouth, and Aerys raises his hand, the nails long and filthy. “You needn’t protest. The idea is obviously absurd. But our spies tell us that the latest plot amongst the nobles involves deposing us in favor of yourself. We take it no one has approached you?”

Victor’s breath seems trapped in his chest. “Not since I’ve been here.”

“Good,” Aerys says. “Well. These little plots do wear themselves out, but sometimes if they go unchecked they…grow.” He makes a face, and Victor sharply recalls the year his father spent imprisoned by the rebellious Lord Darkyn in Duskendale. Truth be told, he’s never been the same since he returned from captivity, and Victor thinks that was the beginning of everything, his father’s paranoia and his manias alike. 

“Yes,” Victor says, faintly.

Aerys pushes away from the table, his meal still untouched. Victor realizes he didn’t bring his poison taster, possibly because of the fight they had last year. Aerys had insisted that the boy’s death was clear evidence of the need for a taster, while Victor knew he’d never forget the sight of it, the child convulsing on the floor of the great hall of the Red Keep.

“Well,” Aerys says. “You know Ser Gerold has announced his plans to retire from our Kingsguard?” He looks displeased.

“No,” Victor said. “But he must be past sixty, yes?”

“He’s still the best sword in the guard,” Aerys says, still making a face. “He must be replaced, and we are thinking of taking someone from amongst the conspirators, as insurance. Perhaps Luthor Tyrell’s son. One should keep one’s enemies close, yes?”

Victor nods, feeling a chill at his father’s words. “You know for certain that Lord Tyrell is involved, then?”

His father waves his hand in the air. “If it’s not one of the great houses, it’s another. They’re all hungry for power, the savage brutes. Like dogs.” He gives Victor a sharp look. “Or wolves.” Aerys lets out a rough bray of laughter, then rises from the table.

Victor rises too, trying to decipher the meaning beneath his father’s words. He remembers that the sigil of Yuuri’s house is the direwolf, and gives his father a sharp look in return, his heart clenching tight with fear. It won't do to show it, though.

He clears his throat, moving on. “Will I see you at the banquet tonight? You know I’ll be busy at the tourney.”

Aerys is still looking at him, head tilted slightly, a strange expression in his dim blue eyes. “The banquet, perhaps. We fancy we may see you at the tourney as well.”

He turns then, and goes out of the room.

Victor sits again, feeling like the air has gone from his lungs and the strength from his joints. Every audience with his father seems more dangerous than the last, like sitting with a keg of wildfire that might burst into unquenchable flames at any moment.

*****

He descends to the yard to find Yuuri sparring with Kenjirou. The boy isn’t much of a match for Yuuri, but he’s doing his level best, swinging Victor’s practice sword with gusto. Yuuri’s treating him with respect, not holding back, and he’s just battered Kenjirou onto one knee, swords locked, when he looks up and catches sight of Victor.

“You weren’t at lunch,” Yuuri says. He makes a crosscut with his sword, shoving Kenjirou back, and then steps backwards himself, sheathing his sword and breathing hard.

“I had a guest,” Victor says, briefly. He glances over the fields towards the arena, where shouts and cheers echo. “I think the women’s tourney is almost finished. Has the draw been posted?”

“Third match!” Kenjirou pipes up, scrambling to his feet. He brushes the dust off his livery, and runs a filthy hand through his hair. “Against Prince Phichit, as we thought.”

Victor remembers talking with Kenjirou about this yesterday, walking over the fields returning from the joust, looking for Yuuri. It seems like a very long time ago.

“Ah,” Victor says. He looks at Yuuri, addressing him coolly. “Well, you shouldn’t have any trouble against your old sparring partner. I trust you know your foster brother’s strengths and weaknesses well?”

Yuuri rolls his head back and forth, uncertain. “He’s very fast. And I saw him use a new attack yesterday in practice — I think they must have a new sword master at Sunspear, perhaps from the east.”

Victor can tell Yuuri’s sliding backwards now, hesitant again, unsure of himself. He hates to see it, and he hates that he can’t stop caring about him. After today, he won’t be Yuuri’s teacher anymore. 

But for today he is, and both their honor rests on Yuuri’s shoulders. Victor takes a breath, and then speaks briskly. “A new attack is a weakness; he won’t have the same reflexes for it yet. Take advantage of that, don’t fear it.”

Yuuri nods at him, wide-eyed but serious. “He does get forgetful of his shield, as the bout goes on. Sometimes he lets it drop, if he’s tired or focusing on the attack.”

“Good,” Victor says. “Who’s next?”

“Ser Georgi, or Otabek Baratheon,” Kenjirou says, promptly.

“My cousin would be simple,” Victor says. “He fights with his emotions, never thinking ahead. But I’m sure Baratheon will dispatch him quickly, though I don’t know him well.” He stops for a moment, thinking. “He’s the one I defeated in the final match in some tourney last year.”

“I remember,” Yuuri says quietly.

“Ah,” Victor says, recalling now that it was at Highgarden. He presses his lips together, willing himself past the memories of that tourney. “As I recall, he’s very physical, but his approach is still unsophisticated. Watch his bout with Georgi closely, see if you can pick up his rhythm.”

Yuuri nods. “I will.”

“After that…” Victor says.

“I’m sure it will be Ser Yuri,” Yuuri says. There’s a pause, and Victor sees him swallow hard, then square up his shoulders. “And I’ve defeated him before.”

Victor smiles, almost without intending it. He reaches out and pats Yuuri’s shoulder, the plated armor cool beneath his hand, and nods, encouraging. “Yes,” he says. 

He doesn’t say what they both know; that his cousin must have been training hard for months with this rematch in mind, taught by the finest masters the kingdom has to offer. He heard someone say yesterday that Ser Yakov’s estranged wife has even returned from overseas, bringing new and arcane secrets of the sword with her. From what he’s seen, Yuri’s been honed into a sharp, brutal weapon, but Yuuri’s improved too, under his tutelage. There’s always a chance for victory. 

He has to believe that, for both of them.

“Shall we go?” Kenjirou says, breaking into Victor’s thoughts. “The ceremonies must be beginning.”

In the distance, they hear the silvery sounds of the horns, ones Victor used to thrill to. Nothing seems as bright and simple as in childhood now, though. 

“Yes,” Victor says. He gives one more glance to Yuuri, who’s withdrawn now, his pale face composed and his eyes fixed on the stands. For a little while things felt the same as before, but Victor’s remembering now that they aren’t, and never will be again. “The arena awaits.”

*****

The opening ceremonies are nearly the same as before. They parade Lord Whent’s daughter again, still wearing the crown of blue winter roses on her curly tresses, and the crowd applauds wildly. She won’t be wearing them by the end of the day; the winner of the tourney will give the crown to a new queen or king of love and beauty, according to tradition. Victor’s always found it a bit silly, and he usually ends up giving the crown to the poorest, dirtiest commoner child he can find, or his lady mother if she’s in attendance. Who the crown will go to today is something of a mystery, though.

Yuri has the first match, against the man from the Iron Islands. Victor settles into the training masters’ box to watch, taking in his cousin’s new speed and grace, even more evident than before. He isn’t leaving himself open as much, seeming to keep his mind on his task better, and Ser Seung-Gil doesn’t stand much of a chance against him. He keeps swinging his broadsword wide, or Yuri darts out of the way in time, tiring the man until his sword thrusts grow slow and heavy. 

Then Yuri springs into action, uncoiling his true speed and skill. So fast it’s hard to follow, he cuts and jabs, knocking the Greyjoy flat on his back. Yuri’s on him in an instant, the point of his sword at his throat, and after a long, grudging moment, Ser Seung-Gil holds up his hand in surrender.

The crowd cheers wildly, Victor notices. Yuri won them over yesterday, taking the final tilt of the joust, and he thinks they’ll still be rooting for him today, Targaryen or not. He feels pride for his cousin, who wants only to follow in Victor’s footsteps in the arena, even as it makes his own plans more complicated.

“Ser Christophe Lannister,” the master of ceremonies announces, “And Jean-Jacques Tyrell!”

Now the crowd murmurs, in anticipation of a rematch from yesterday. Victor thinks of his father’s words, _taking one of the sons of the conspirators as insurance_. He turns and searches the crowd for Lord Luthor Tyrell, seated in the grandstands near his father’s own curtained stall. The man is large and corpulent, almost obscuring his wife on the bench next to him, the tiny, fierce Lady Olenna. Queen of Thorns, they call her in the south.

Her gaze is fixed on the grounds below, watching her son prepare for the match. At the last moment, though, her sharp eyes shift, meeting Victor’s own. He blinks, surprised, but holds her glance, nodding slightly in acknowledgement. After a moment, she nods herself, and looks back to the arena.

The cheers are equally loud for each combatant, both heirs of large and popular houses. Christophe is gorgeously arrayed, his scarlet and golden armor and lion’s head helm shining in the sun, while Jean-Jacques’s is lacquered green, with crimson roses at the shoulders and knees. They’re each skilled swordsmen that Victor’s faced any number of times, and watching them he feels the keenest ache yet to be amongst them, testing his steel against theirs. 

The match goes on, loud and showy, a dazzling display of martial talents. Tall Christophe attacks swiftly and steadily, with superior reach, while Jean-Jacques holds his ground and pushes Christophe off his stance every so often. Neither seems to tire, but eventually the Tyrell lands a crushing blow and Christophe staggers back, buckling beneath the weight of it. Jean-Jacques seizes his advantage and presses in, and at last the bright-armored figure goes down in the dirt, falling to his knees. 

Christophe always had a flair for the dramatic, though, and he pulls off his helm, letting his golden hair spill out, falling in his eyes. He shakes it back as he looks up at Jean-Jacques to say something, most likely offering his surrender in flowery language. The crowd screams and Victor snorts, shaking his head. Christophe may have lost in the first round, but he’s ensured he’ll be remembered.

Jean-Jacques opens his visor, revealing his frowning, puzzled face, and Victor sees Christophe smile charmingly. He can’t hear them over the noise of the crowd, but at last Jean-Jacques shrugs and gestures to Christophe to rise.

“The victor, Jean-Jacques Tyrell!” the master of ceremonies shouts, and the crowd cheers once more.

Now Victor feels his breath pick up, as the next combatants enter the arena. Prince Phichit is still clad in his light armor, and Victor can see how that might be an aid on the field, letting him move more nimbly against an attack. He’d still take the solidity of Yuuri’s plate, though, and he isn’t truly concerned. He’s seen what Yuuri can do.

The question, though, isn’t whether he _can_ , but whether he _will_.

Yuuri’s visor is down, and it’s impossible to infer anything from his stance, as they take up their positions in the center of the ring. Phichit’s armor might be light, but his tourney broadsword is heavy, and it gleams in the afternoon sun.

The horns blare.

He feels the breath Yuuri takes, rather than sees it. Centering himself, bringing focus onto his body and his sword, the way he’s done with Victor a hundred times in the yard. Victor knows him so well by now, every step and habit, the length of his swing and the angle at which he holds his shield, all the things that make up his talents. There’s a Yuuri beyond that, though — the man who faced six bandits in a field with only a blunted sword, who attacked three older, more experienced knights with the same sword last night. The Yuuri who acts in defense of others, never himself. Victor wonders who he’ll see today.

Yuuri attacks. He doesn’t hold back, or wait for Phichit to take the first swing, measuring his new skill. Victor nods, approving. Yuuri’s always best in motion, letting his body work without thought or hesitation. 

Phichit is as fast as Yuuri said. He springs back, bringing up his shield, keeping Yuuri outside his guard as he takes a step to the side and circles him, warily. He has to cover more ground that way, Victor notices, and he wonders if Yuuri thought of that. Yuuri keeps himself in the center of the circle and turns to follow Phichit, keeping up a steady rain of strikes and jabs against his shield. Phichit lands a few blows, too, but Yuuri parries them easily, always moving to strike again.

Victor sees Phichit try a new attack, something unfamiliar, and Yuuri sees it too. Like a flash, he comes in under Phichit’s arm and knocks it aside, then hits the boy’s helm with the edge of his buckler, hard. Foolishly, perhaps dazed from the contact, Phichit tries the same attack again, but he’s slower this time and Yuuri is waiting. This time he’s able to knock the sword from Phichit’s hand, disarming him and sending it spinning away across the sands of the arena. 

Both men hesitate, for just a moment. They each look over to the sword on the ground, well out of arm’s reach, and Victor bites his lip. He’s just wondering if Yuuri will allow Phichit to retrieve the sword, putting friendship over the competition, when Phichit goes down to one knee, bowing his head. 

Victor lets out a sigh of relief, and the crowds cheer, a little belatedly. 

“The winner is Ser Yuuri Stark, the Winter Swan!”

He smiles, hearing the new title again. There’s something about seeing Yuuri compete in his old tabard, under the name Victor gave to him, that kindles a strange warmth in his chest. Victor lets himself feel it for a moment before quenching it again, pressing the painful memory of last night like fingernails against his palm. 

_It’s clear that our training relationship is at an end._

Yuuri was right, he thinks. Their time together has brought them here, but they’ve each grown and changed along the way, and their old relationship has run its natural course. Whatever the future holds, it can't look the same as it's been between them.

The final match of the first round is Otabek Baratheon again Victor’s cousin Georgi. Victor longs to go below to the competitors’ gate, but he needs to watch this bout carefully first, seeking any new information he can about Baratheon’s fighting style. He remembers him, once he sees him in action; strong and fast, valuing strength and speed over the finer skills of swordsmanship. This fight is more brutal than the ones that came before, both men battering each other mercilessly. He sees Georgi attempt a few more complex moves, but they’re still unrefined and Otabek gives him no quarter.

At last Georgi charges at him, furious and desperate. Otabek whips his sword through a tight defensive parry and then checks him bodily, catching Georgi at the point in his rush where it’s easy to knock him to the ground. 

Victor rises, not watching the finishing moves. Yuuri is waiting below, and for today, at least, Victor is still his training master.

Kenjirou’s pouring water over Yuuri’s head when Victor arrives, sluicing down over his face and the back of his neck. Yuuri shakes his head, sending water droplets flying everywhere, and slicks his hair back with one hand. Victor stops, arrested by Yuuri’s casual, comfortable physicality. He looks tired but determined, and, with his hair pushed out of his face, older than his years. This is the man Victor found last night on the camp grounds, dueling three strange knights on a point of honor. 

Or the man who fought off twice as many, in defense of Victor himself. 

Victor clenches his jaw and strides forward. “Yuuri,” he says.

Yuuri turns, and Victor hates the way his expression shuts down, distance growing in his eyes. As though Yuuri feels like he needs to protect himself from Victor, or keep himself apart. “Yes?”

“Use skill with Baratheon,” Victor says. “Your stamina’s as good as his or better, but he won’t expect it. Hold him off until he thinks you’re tired out, and then make your move.”

Yuuri frowns. “I don’t like deception. And besides, a decoy like that just leaves me open longer. Wouldn’t it be better to show my best from the start?” Victor opens his mouth to speak, and Yuuri adds, “That’s what you would do, I know.”

Victor snaps his mouth shut again. It’s true, he’s never played at being anything other than what he was, always trusting to the strength of his own arm and the quickness of his mind to defeat his opponents. It’s heartening, somehow, to know that Yuuri feels the same, but — 

“Don’t you ever listen to your training master?” Victor asks, with an exasperated frown.

And then, like sunshine breaking through on a cloudy day, Yuuri smiles at him. “I used to,” he says, and there’s that teasing note in his voice Victor has learned to listen for, to love. For a moment, it’s the same as it’s always been, warmth and affection glowing between them, and it seems absurd that it could be any other way.

The horns blare behind them, signaling the start of the next match. Yuuri turns back to Kenjirou. “Hand me my helmet? I’ll watch this match from the gate.” Without another look back, he walks towards the arena.

Victor catches Kenjirou’s eye and then looks away, quickly. The boy’s smile is too knowing. He climbs the stairs back to the stands, but that’s not why his heart is pounding.

*****

He reaches his seat again just as the next match becomes heated, swords clashing again and again, ringing out in the air. Jean-Jacques is fighting well, weaving a dense wall of attacks with his sword, but Victor can see the brilliant quickness of Yuri’s sword, the careful shifting of his feet as he maneuvers on the ground. Tyrell attacks now with ever-larger thrusts, grandiose strikes that seem to be beating Yuri back near the wall. He probably thinks he’s winning, or close to it, but Yuri’s coiled, compact stance tells Victor otherwise.

And then Yuri explodes forwards, his attack furious and lightning-fast. Victor’s old tourney armor gleams in the afternoon sun, and the small figure inside seems like a statue come to life, his form perfect as he turns and strikes over and over again. He pushes Jean-Jacques to the center of the ring, and then farther on, faster and faster, until finally Tyrell trips over his own feet and goes down heavily, flat on his back.

Yuri’s on him immediately, sword to his throat, just as he did with the Greyjoy. Jean-Jacques lifts a hand, but Yuri doesn’t withdraw for a minute, still clearly breathing hard. Then the victory horn blows, and he finally steps away.

The crowd cheers, even louder than before. Victor sees that the boy has won them over in the last few days, and down in the arena Yuri strips off his helm, shaking back his yellow hair. The crowd cheers more lustily, and Victor feels a sudden pang. He remembers being that young, looking around the stands with the same kind of smile as his cousin wears now, cocky and disbelieving at once, acclimating to this new adoration and praise. It’s easy to get used to, and just as easy to fall from grace, Victor knows.

His eyes are drawn suddenly to his father’s royal box. For once his father is leaning forward enough to be visible, resting his chin on his hands. His expression is intent, hawkish, and it sends a shiver through Victor, seeing Aerys’s gaze fixed on Yuri like that.

He looks away, down to where Yuuri and Otabek Baratheon are entering the ring now. They set up in the middle of the arena, bowing slightly to each other as their names are announced, and then the horns are blown once again, beginning the match.

Victor doesn’t know what to expect, this time.Yuuri’s gone beyond him now, out of reach, and all Victor can do is trust to his strength and his sense, and the smile he gave Victor a little while ago.

Yuuri shows his best from the start, as he promised. Victor recognizes the moves they practiced together, on the training grounds at Winterfell and all the way here, by their roadside camps and in the courtyards of tiny inns. Yuuri's better now, as quick and perfect as he needs to be.

For all that, he can still tell that Yuuri’s holding back a little, saving his strength for the end of the match, or perhaps for the next one. Otabek lands a few blows that he shouldn’t have, and Victor winces when one strike brings Yuuri’s shield arm down, crumpling beneath the force of it. That’s the shoulder he injured last night, and Victor isn’t sure how serious the wound really is.

Yuuri keeps his head up, though, and unleashes a whirling attack Victor’s seen him use before, when they practiced the katana. Victor’s mouth drops open, seeing him do it with the heavier broadsword, and Otabek isn’t expecting it either. He cringes away from the swinging overhand blade, raising his buckler, and Yuuri’s able to get under it with his next strike, flashing up. Otabek takes two stumbling steps back and trips, staggering down onto one knee. 

In a moment Yuuri has him disarmed, sword flying into the dirt. The crowd gasps a little; it’s the second opponent he’s beaten this way and the speed is astounding, almost too fast to be seen. Otabek sprawls onto the ground, reaching after it probably on instinct, but he’s too good a swordsman not to know when he’s been beaten.

Yuuri extends a hand to help him up, and after a pause Otabek takes it. The victory horn blows.

“You’ve done good work with that boy, Your Highness,” someone says beside him. 

Victor turns to see Ser Josef, who’s been the master at arms at Casterly Rock as long as he can remember. The man’s grown heavier, but the square spectacles on his round, bald head look the same as ever. Victor remembers seeing Christophe train with him, back when he was a just small, fair-haired boy, sweet and roguish. Ser Josef was stern with him in a different way than Ser Yakov; solid and implacable, always fair but never relenting.

“Thank you,” Victor says, shading his hand with his eyes. He sees now that Ser Yakov is seated on the other side, pretending not to listen. They spoke briefly yesterday, and it was not a fruitful or pleasant conversation for either of them. 

_Playing at being a master-at-arms…wasting both your time…avoiding your duties…your father….the kingdom…_

“I’ve done my best, of course,” Victor goes on. “But I’m sure you can see he has natural talent. It only needed the right coaching to bring it out.”

“Hmph,” Ser Josef snorts. And then, diplomatic as ever, “I’m sure you’re right, Your Highness.”

He rises from his seat, and ascends the stairs to the concession booths above, leaving Victor with only an empty seat between himself and Ser Yakov. He stares forward a moment, and then nerves himself to speak, turning with a pleasant, superficial smile.

Ser Yakov is already looking at him, a knowing scowl on his face. He spits before he speaks, looking sour. “Lady Olenna sends her regards.”

“Oh?” Victor says. His smile slips, and he raises his eyebrows, uncertain how to answer.

“Mmph,” Ser Yakov says with a snort. “Lady Regula as well, but I’m sure you’ve already spoken with her son.”

Victor nods, trying to regain his composure. “I’ve had the pleasure of being in Christophe’s company several times, but he hasn’t mentioned his mother.”

Ser Yakov shakes his head. “I hoped at least part of the reason you went north was to parley with Lady Stark. I take it you didn’t?”

“Lady Hiroko was a kind and generous host,” Victor says, carefully. “We mainly discussed Yuuri’s training.”

Now Ser Yakov just stares at him, disgust crossing his face. “You’ve been gone nearly six months, Victor. Do you think the situation has improved since you left? Have you met with your father yet?”

Victor pauses a moment, holding his breath. “Yes,” he finally says. “We dined together today, before I came here.”

“Then you know,” Ser Yakov says, without breaking their stare. He speaks a little more softly now, but with no less intensity. “It can’t go on this way, Vitya.”

His words hang in the air, burning Victor’s ears. He’s just trying to decide how to reply when Ser Josef returns, pushing his bulk between them, and Victor turns his gaze gratefully back to the ring.

The arena is being swept clear now, and Victor realizes with a jolt that they’re at the final match of the tourney. Yuuri’s made it through, and so has his cousin, as if they were fated to meet. Victor remembers a chilly afternoon, a gathering crowd in the castle yard and Yuuri’s pale, determined face inside the armory, clutching Victor’s old swan tabard in his hands. That Yuuri’s made the shameful reminder of Victor’s past into a symbol of his own success pleases Victor, but he wonders suddenly what his father thinks of it. Aerys, who never forgets anything.

This time Victor makes his way to the low wooden wall of the arena, leaning over it. When Yuuri enters he catches sight of Victor, and after a moment’s hesitation follows his beckoning hand. He flips up his visor as he approaches, and Victor sees the frown on his face.

Not far away, though, Ser Yakov is doing the same thing with Yuri. Victor glances over, and then back, lowering his voice.

“You can beat him,” he says, softly. “I don’t have any special insights this time. Just do your best, and I think you can succeed.”

To his surprise, Yuuri rolls his eyes. “Gods,” he says, shaking his head. “Here I was, feeling lucky to have the crown prince as my training master, and this is all I get for advice.”

Victor opens his mouth, startled, but Yuuri smiles at him, eyes teasing and alight. Victor laughs, then, and reaches forward to put his hands on both Yuuri’s shoulders, resting on the cool steel of his armor. “I gave you a good luck token,” he says, keeping his voice low as he leans in. “I hope you still have it.”

Yuuri nods, and his breath is warm against Victor’s face.

“Good,” Victor says. “Then there’s no excuse if you don’t win. I did my best.”

Yuuri smiles again. He tips his head forward, so his visor just touches Victor’s forehead. “Thank you,” he whispers, and then he turns away, unsheathing his sword.

Victor watches him go, heart racing, breath short in his chest. It’s like it was below in the breezeway, with everything the same as it’s been between them; laughter and affection, the banked heat and the thrilling promise of something more. He thinks, _this isn’t truly over, not yet_.

To his right, Yuri and Ser Yakov have finished speaking as well. His cousin crosses the sands of the arena, taking up his place opposite Yuuri in the center. They draw their swords, readying themselves for the battle ahead.

Victor holds his breath and stares at the two figures before him, his gaze fixed. Both in plain steel armor, one in the black and silver tabard, the other in pure white. Yuri isn’t wearing the red and black of House Targaryen, he realizes, but the colors of the Kingsguard, the white knights who hold the highest honor in the land. 

_Captain of your Kingsguard, of course,_ Yuri told him that day, months ago, but it isn’t Victor’s Kingsguard now. He wonders what his father thinks of Yuri’s choice. 

He doesn’t have time to turn his head and look, though, because the horns blare brassy and bright for the start of the match. In the blink of an eye both knights move, swords upraised and bucklers braced, beginning to circle each other. 

They strike at the same time. To Victor’s eye, it looks like Yuri is faster, but Yuuri’s parry is solid enough to hold him off. They withdraw, circling again, striking again.

It feels like a fated dance, the give and take, sword and shield and sword again. His cousin is quick and lithe, twisting beneath Yuuri’s cuts and jabs, his blade everywhere. He makes a mistake here and there, leaving his defense open too long or landing a clumsy strike, but he’s come so far since the last time Victor watched him duel. He’s in control of his attack now, his skillful arm weaving through the air in complex patterns, and he’s less enamored of his own talent as well, focusing on breaking through Yuuri’s defense even when it interrupts his flow. He’ll be a master swordsman soon, and one day, perhaps one of the greatest ever.

But today Yuuri is perfect. He seems to know where Yuri will strike each time, and he meets it with his buckler or his blade. Victor watches him go through familiar steps, but with a strength and power he’s never seen before. It feels like so much more is at stake here than a champion’s purse and laurels, as though the outcome of this match is vital, earthshaking, world-changing. Yuuri’s fighting for something more, something only Victor sees. The honor of his name and family, but for his own self as well, proving his value, his quality.

And he’s fighting for both of them, Victor thinks. To show that their time together was worthwhile.

The battle rages on, as enthralling and evenly-matched as any spar here today. He can tell the crowd is caught up in the tension, shouts and cheers all around him, but he just watches the two figures move around the ring, using more of the space than the competitors before them. Now it’s Yuuri with his back to the wall and Yuri closing in; now it’s Yuuri launching himself forward and battling Yuri towards one of the great wooden shafts holding up the silken tent above them. Yuri manages to sidestep the pillar, but he catches his elbow against it, and in the moment he staggers Victor knows the battle is over.

It’s the same as it was in the Winterfell training yard. Yuuri lunges forward and wedges his foot behind Yuri’s, trapping him in place as he strikes at Yuri’s sword hand. In a moment he’ll push Yuri backwards, using his superior force and weight, and disarm Yuri once he’s toppled to the ground. Victor groans, hating to see his cousin fall prey to the same move as before, but he’s so very young.

Except Yuri — dodges. He lifts his foot, graceless but quick, and disentangles himself from Yuuri’s body, stumbling to the side. He strikes out with his sword as he goes, and that’s graceless too, but it holds Yuuri off as he scrambles back, getting out of range. 

Victor hisses in a breath. Of course Yuri remembered. He must have been brooding over that defeat for months.

It takes Yuuri a moment to recover, but then he turns and follows. He’s the pursuer now, and Yuri the prey, moving backwards and forced to parry Yuuri’s strikes to keep him at bay. Yuuri presses in heavily, his attacks overhand now, strong and crushing. Victor knows the depth of his stamina, but it’s his third match of the day and he must be tiring.

But Yuri brings up his sword and shield more slowly too, until they’re each pausing between clashes, seeming to steel themselves each time for the next one. At last Yuuri stops, shoulders visibly heaving, sword hanging loose at his side. Victor’s never seen him so thoroughly exhausted before, always tiring himself first, but it looks like Yuuri’s finally reached that point. Yuri seems weakened as well, shifting back and forth as though he’s tottering on his feet, but he keeps his sword and shield raised, looking like he might be about to launch an attack of his own.

And then Yuuri raises up his sword.

At first it looks slow, as though he’s moving through water. Victor knows that feeling; limbs heavy, body at its limits, scarcely responding to the mind’s command. But when the sword reaches the zenith of its arc, Yuuri explodes into motion — twisting, turning, making a spinning overhand strike that comes crashing down on Yuri’s buckler. The force of it brings the boy to one knee, staggering, and then Yuuri twists his shoulders and slashes the other way, knocking him off balance completely. 

Yuri topples backwards, onto the sandy ground. He doesn’t lose his grip on his sword, though, and he pushes himself back up with his other hand, stretching to make a wild, swinging strike. Yuuri meets it with his own blade, and then plants his foot in the center of Yuri’s chest, forcing him back down again. Once more, Yuri tries to rise, sitting up to make a desperate, two-handed slash, and Yuuri crosses swords with him, pressing down.

The cheers of the crowd are deafening now. Victor can’t look away, can scarcely even breathe. Yuuri, standing, has all the advantage of height and weight, but he’s still just holding his sword with one hand against Yuri’s two. Victor doesn’t know what sense of chivalry or fair play is holding him back from making a final, crushing strike, but watching them, he feels like his whole body is frozen in this moment, locked in combat like the two figures below. 

Close to the arena as he is, he sees the faint movement of Yuuri’s helm, and it seems like he’s speaking. The stands are too loud for Victor to hear the words, but his cousin jerks as though he’s tossing his head as he replies. Yuri leans back briefly, then makes a renewed press upwards, feet shifting like he’s trying to get them under him.

At last, Yuuri makes his move. He grips his sword with both hands and lifts it high, then brings it down, hard. 

Yuri’s sword goes spinning off into the dirt. He scrambles forward, reaching for it, but Yuuri’s foot comes down on the blade. They both freeze, and then Yuuri reaches down, retrieving the sword, and offers it to Yuri, hilt-first.

Victor lets out a soft gasp, bringing his hand to his cheek. Is Yuuri simply returning the weapon of his defeated foe, or is he actually offering to continue the battle? He stares, dumbstruck, while the roar of the crowd drops to a confused muttering around him.

Yuri takes the sword. He gets to his feet, slowly, and hesitates for just a moment, as the entire arena goes silent, holding a breath. Then he lets the point of the sword drop to the ground and drops his head, bowing slightly.

The horns blare one final time. “The champion of the tourney,” the master of ceremonies bawls. “Ser Yuuri Stark. The Winter Swan!”

The stands explode with cheers, deafening after the brief silence. Victor finds himself shouting along with the rest of them, hands cupped around his mouth. Down in the arena, Yuuri seems dazed, looking around him at the wildly applauding crowd. The master of ceremonies enters the ring, followed by servants carrying prizes; a velvet purse filled with gold, and the traditional crowns of laurel and blue winter roses.

Someone lifts off Yuuri’s helm, and he blinks, squinting as his tousled, sweaty dark hair falls across his forehead. They place the laurel crown on his head, sitting crookedly, and he pushes it back along with his hair. Victor sees him cast his eye on the velvet bag, not in longing but in slight confusion and alarm; it’s enough money to make him a target for bandits on the ride home, but surely a meaningless sum to Lady Stark’s son. 

Now Lord Whent makes his way across the ring, smiling and officious as always. He’s got a pleased smile on his face, undoubtedly loving being the center of attention at his tourney. He picks up the blue rose crown as he goes, and with a flourishing gesture presents it to Yuuri, raising a hand to the crowd for silence.

“The champion must name the ruler of love and beauty, as always,” Lord Whent says, loudly. His smile is smug now, and he must be expecting the flustered and unbetrothed young knight to choose his own daughter again, out of courtesy. “Who is your choice, Ser?”

Yuuri blinks again. “Victor, of course. I mean, Prince Victor.”

His voice doesn’t carry past the first few rows, and a murmur of anticipation goes around the stands as Yuuri takes the crown from Lord Whent and sets off across the arena. His eyes are fixed on Victor, wide and clear, and it feels like Victor’s heart stops beating altogether as Yuuri comes closer.

He shouldn’t take the crown. He can hear his father’s voice, admonishing him to never show partiality to any subject. _We are their sovereigns. We are above them, not of them. Never concern yourself in their affairs._

Yuuri reaches the wall, and the murmur grows louder, as people realize who he’s named. He licks his dry lips, looking up, and there’s a question in his eyes. He holds out the crown of roses. 

“Your Highness?” Yuuri asks.

Victor lets out a rush of air and nods, leaning forward and inclining his head. Yuuri places the wreath on it.

“Prince Victor Targaryen, I crown you king, of love and beauty,” Yuuri says, and now he’s loud enough to be heard, louder than Victor’s ever heard him speak. He touches Victor’s shoulder briefly, and then returns to the center of the ring.

 _There was a pause after “king”_ , Victor thinks, his heart beating wildly now, pulsing in his ears.

He lifts his head, avoiding meeting the eyes of anyone around him. He’s never been an observer like this before; always a competitor, bestower of the crown himself. Always an actor in the scene, but apart somehow, making his own decisions. He has the sudden, dizzying sense that events are unfolding rapidly, the world acting upon him and carrying him along in the rush. He can’t see yet how it will end.

Victor watches Yuuri take his place next to Lord Whent again, for the presentation of the prize money, when he hears his father’s voice. 

“We have two royal commands,” Aerys says, from the front of his box. He speaks louder than anyone, years of heedless command trained into it, and the arena falls silent at the strange sound of their king speaking in public. In recent years, he’s hardly said more than a few words in the hearing of common folk.

The master of ceremonies steps swiftly into action. “Of course, Your Majesty!” he says, and bows deeply, hand pressed to his chest.

“First,” Aerys says. “We elevate the standing of our cousin, Yuri Targaryen. We have already granted him the use of the royal name, instead of the surname occasioned by his bastard birth, but in light of his excellent performance today, we wish to make him a knight of our Kingsguard.”

Victor recalls his father’s words at lunch today, an icy chill going through him. _We are thinking of taking someone from amongst the conspirators, as insurance. One must keep one’s enemies close, yes?_

He looks quickly at the center of the ring, where Yuri has already whipped off his helm and fallen to one knee, bending over into a deep bow in the direction of the king. _He thinks this is an honor_ , Victor thinks, with dread. _Not a threat to keep me in line._

“Arise, Ser Yuri,” his father says, dryly. He’s come to stand at the front of his box now, at the wall of the arena, and his long, tangled beard blows slightly in the wind. He’s a strange figure, with his filthy hair and hunched shoulders, still with the bearing of royalty. “You were knighted under…unusual circumstances to begin with, but we shall rectify that irregularity now.”

He beckons Yuri closer, imperiously. Yuri gets to his feet and approaches the stands, and Victor finally sees his face.

Yuri doesn’t think it’s an honor. There in his wide green eyes are all the same fears Victor shares and more.

Someone hands Aerys his sword. He looks at it a moment, tilting it so the Valyrian steel gleams in the sunlight, and then grips it tighter, turning back to Yuri. “We dub thee Ser Yuri Targaryen, knight of the royal Kingsguard.”

Yuri drops his head, golden hair curtaining his face, as Aerys taps the sword on each shoulder. Victor’s close enough to hear him mutter, “Thank you, sire.” 

The crowd applauds politely when he lifts his head. The ceremonies are nearly finished, and there’s a grumbling in the stands as the supper hour approaches, the sun sinking lower. Yuri turns and takes his place stiffly at the wall, beneath Aerys.

“As for our second command,” Aerys says. He pauses, looking around the arena, and a strange expression crosses his face. Disgust and weariness, mixed with a sly satisfaction Victor knows well. His father has an idea, and Victor doesn’t think he’ll like it one bit.

Finally Aerys looks back at the center of the ring, where Yuuri is still standing politely at attention between the tourney dignitaries. “Ser Yuuri Stark has fought, oh very bravely indeed today. But he is not the champion just yet.”

Victor sees Yuuri’s eyes widen, beneath the laurels on his brow, and his shoulders lift as he takes a surprised breath. Around him, the crowd is murmuring again. Victor clenches his fists, his entire body, as he waits for his father’s next words.

“A true champion must defeat the very best, to earn his place,” Aerys says. He licks his lips, smacking them audibly. “We decree there must be one more battle before this tourney is won.”

Victor turns to look at his father. Aerys smiles, as though he can feel the heat of Victor’s stare, as though he’s the one who’s won the laurels today. Victor shuts his eyes, his own breath loud in his ears, against the weight of what he knows is coming.

“Ser Yuuri Stark, you cannot be crowned champion without defeating the greatest knight in our kingdom. The final match of this tourney will be against our son, Prince Victor Targaryen.”

Victor opens his eyes to see his father looking at him now. Expectant, exulting. This is revenge for leaving King’s Landing for Winterfell, for everything that's happened since. He thinks Aerys knows everything in Victor’s heart; his loathing for the court and his father’s politics, his happiness in the north. His love for Yuuri. 

He can't refuse this battle, ordered by royal command, but he has some power left. Victor clears his throat and stands up.

“As you wish, sire,” he says, in his loud, clear, throne room voice, and bends in a slight bow. “I'll need my gear fetched from my room. And I claim choice of weapons, of course,” he adds, offhand.

He doesn't look at the arena, at Yuuri’s face. He keeps his gaze fixed on his father, standing tall and confident. Aerys has every right to refuse him this request, but Victor doesn't think his father will stoop to quarrel in front of all these people.

“Choice of weapons, eh,” Aerys says. He rubs at his tangled beard with one long-nailed hand. “We hope you aren't proposing an archery contest, or some such foolish pageantry.”

“Hardly,” Victor says. He smiles, bright and bold and meaningless, and his heart screams shrilly within his chest. “For the weapon of the final battle, I choose the ancient sword of the north. A noble blade, wielded only by the most skilled. I choose the katana.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The crown of love and beauty really is made of blue roses in the ASOIAF books, which is a weird coincidence I didn’t even remember until I started outlining the tourney. :)


	9. Nine - Yuuri

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...oh hey the rating changed. ;)
> 
> I’ve chosen not to tag all the elements of the sex scene, for spoiler reasons. I don’t think any of it is likely to be triggering or squicky (no abuse, injury, or hardcore kink), but if you’d prefer to know all the discrete elements, **scroll to the bottom for a more complete description**.
> 
> I was greatly aided in writing the fight scene by this video about realistic samurai fighting (it also displays some of the moves I describe): 
> 
> https://youtu.be/RvgxD3O-OPI
> 
> This pivotal chapter required some more in-depth beta wrangling than previous ones. Thanks to ohtempora and shdwsilk for stepping in, and as always to someitems.
> 
>  **12/29/17** Chapter 10 has been delayed by a week, sorry! It’s complete but the next chapter isn’t, and since I’m nearly done I don’t want to paint myself into any plot corners. Posting will resume 1/5.

The world narrows.

First, there is Yuuri’s breath. Quick in his throat and loud in his ears, a living thing with a will of its own, burning in his chest. The ache of his left shoulder, injured in last night’s fight and inflamed by today’s matches, burns at the edge of his awareness. Then there’s the ground beneath his tired feet, and the noise around him; people murmuring, speaking, shouting, flags flapping in the breeze, the jingle of horse tack and the sound, very far away, of birds overhead.

And before him, Victor. 

No one objected to the king’s command. Yuuri can’t even conceive of it himself, going against that strong and utterly certain voice, moving the world with a word. He thinks, fleetingly, _that’s where Victor gets it from_.

Someone has brought the armor from Yuuri’s trunk. Lacquered iron plates, strange to see here in the south, dangling from the arms of a confused squire as the boy figures out how to put it on. Yuuri watches as Victor is outfitted in the armor of his ancestors, preparing to fight with a sword of the north.

Victor watches him, too. Yuuri can feel his gaze as much as see it, across the sands of the arena. His clear blue eyes are intent as ever, but shuttered, somehow. He isn’t letting Yuuri in, and until now Yuuri never realizes how far Victor had allowed him. How close they came.

The squire hands Victor his helm now. Round and wooden, banded with iron, familiar to Yuuri and so surprising to see in Victor’s grasp. Victor gives Yuuri one last look, and fits it on his head.

Yuuri reaches up, slowly, and touches the laurels Lord Whent laid there, not so very long ago. The victor’s crown. Victor’s crown. Then he takes them off, and reaches for his own helm.

Kenjirou is at his side now, checking over the kikko armor he's been putting on Yuuri, adjusting the fit. Yuri is somewhere, sidelined, and after so long expecting their final match, it’s strange the way he scarcely seems to matter at all now. Ser Yuri Targaryen, knight of the Kingsguard, Yuuri remembers, and he thinks of how Victor looked when his father called that out. There are so many levels here, so many games he doesn’t understand, wheels within wheels. Politics have never been for him. 

_Surrender_ , he told Yuri, not so long ago. Yuri was kneeling on the ground, sword crossed against Yuuri’s with both hands in a desperate attempt to hold him off. _Don’t make me shame you in front of all these people._

 _Surrender?_ Yuri growled through his teeth. _The only shame would be in surrendering to you, pig._

Yuuri beat him down in the end, forced to it, but he offered Yuri his sword back with honor and this time Yuri took it. Today Yuuri triumphed again, but he knows it won’t always be like that. He’d rather be friends, or at least respected rivals, than think of Yuri as his enemy.

He’s dreamed of being all those things with Victor, when he was younger. Skilled enough for Victor to know his name and to fear meeting him in the later rounds of a tourney, shaking his own head and Yuuri’s hand after being soundly defeated. Taking Victor’s place at the top of the lists, winning champions’ purses and renown throughout the kingdom. To meet as equals on the field.

And then the desire to put all that aside and know Victor as a man. To hear his stories and his music, to win his admiration and his affection, to truly be seen by him. It was a more foolish hope than becoming a famous tourney knight, but Yuuri’s still cherished it for almost half his life, and somehow it’s come true. He’s had more of Victor than he ever dreamed — his time and his attention, his favor and his kiss — but it all feels like wavering smoke in the air now, threatened by the winds of change all around them. It’s hard to believe it was ever real.

The katana in his hands is real. The upcoming battle is real, tired as he is. Victor hasn’t been training in as much earnest as Yuuri, these past few months, but he’s still been sitting in the stands as Yuuri fought his way through three tourney rounds, and it’s impossible to think that Victor Targaryen, fresh and still impossibly talented, won’t win the day. Yuuri can feel himself giving in as he stands here, waiting to lose what he'd thought he had at last, the laurels taken by their rightful owner. It's always been Victor.

But thinking of him conjures up his words from the past few days, echoing through Yuuri’s head. _Be as you are,_ and _There's no excuse if you don't win._ A reluctant smile creeps across Yuuri’s face; in truth, even Ser Celestino was better at encouraging phrases. He knows what Victor meant, though, and after all — Victor saw promise in him, whether it was during their match last year or at the banquet after. With everything they’ve worked for, he can't quit on Victor now, even if that means defeating him.

And Victor chose the katana.

Yuuri's beaten three knights in battle today. He's strong, but he's tired, and though he hasn't been in full training for months Victor is still the foremost knight in the kingdom. Victor had to know, when he claimed the right of selection, that Yuuri’s only hope of winning was with his own weapon.

He watches Victor take a few practice swings with the katana, turning it in the light. Victor swings it like a broadsword still, stabbing instead of slashing, though he’s graceful and quick. The lacquered armor is light on Yuuri’s shoulders, compared to his heavy plate, and he wonders if Victor realizes how much they could hurt each other, even with these century-year old swords. That’s always been between them, too, the potential disaster, everything gone terribly wrong.

Victor can’t have known what he was asking for. He takes one last swing in the air with his sword and then nods in calm satisfaction, sheathing it again. The arena has been cleared, taking away the speaking podium and the champion’s prizes, and Lord Whent and his train have all departed. When Yuuri looks up, he sees it’s him and Victor, alone in the center of the ring.

“The final competitors of the day,” the master of ceremonies shouts. “Victor Targaryen, crown prince of Westeros and reigning champion of the Harrenhal tourney, against Yuuri Stark of Winterfell.”

There’s a murmur through the crowd at his words; the titles used to announce Yuuri today are conspicuously absent. Yuuri knows that Victor’s father must be responsible for it. But he can’t think now about having made an enemy of his king, because the silvery horns blow and he’s facing Victor in the arena at last. 

They raise their swords and bow, a preliminary to the fight. For this battle, they have no shields. Victor’s face is still and solemn, beneath the brim of his wooden helm, and when he moves, the lacquered iron tiles of his kikko armor move with him, draping and clinging to his body. He looks like a northern soldier, like the heroes of Yuuri’s childhood dreams, but with the face Yuuri’s been imagining since he was twelve years old. The clear, steady blue eyes, kind but knowing, seeing all.

He couldn’t see Victor’s face the last time they met in a tourney ring, Yuuri thinks. And then Victor strikes, and all that’s in his head is _for the love of all the old gods, don’t_ kill _him_.

The swords in their hands are still sharp, and the kikko armor nowhere near as protective as the steel plate they left on the sidelines. More than that, though, Yuuri’s training in the katana was never for show. He knows the shadow dance, the prescribed moves for warming up and preparation, but the soldiers of the north, defending against the wildlings over the wall, have never had time for tourney mock fights. The art of the katana was the art of war.

Yuuri practiced with wooden blades as a child, clashing with Takeshi under his father’s tutelage. Katanas were too sharp and deadly for anything but mock play, their slender edges meant to maim or kill. He can still hear Ser Nishigori’s instruction — never to draw his sword fully and reveal his reach, never to raise his arm too high and let an opponent attack beneath, always to use their strength against them. The goal was to strike quickly, slashing at the neck or abdomen, twisting and turning out of harm’s way and onto the next foe.

He can’t fight Victor the way he was taught. Victor still doesn’t realize that his fights with Maestra Minako were show duels, the older woman letting him cross blades with her as if they were broadswords and their combat staged. She didn’t even begin to teach him the art of redirecting his energy, letting his body flow around his opponent’s moves, let alone the true, fatal nature of the katana.

That’s how Yuuri will have to fight him now. Marshaling all his strength and grace to let the slender sword guide him, avoiding Victor’s attacks until he can land one of his own.

Victor strikes, and Yuuri isn’t there. Instead he takes a quick step forward, and then another. He pivots and turns, coming to stand parallel with Victor, facing the same direction. Yuuri’s left arm shoots out, in a move he doesn’t even consciously make, his body remembering the years of training on its own. His elbow connects with Victor’s chest, right in the solar plexus, and he hears Victor give out a pained breath, recoiling a step. 

Then Yuuri turns again, bringing his sword down in a vertical strike. Victor recovers just in time to parry it, but Yuuri takes another swing, crosswise this time. He fights Victor back, step by step, their blades meeting with high, scraping sounds. It’s not how Yuuri was taught — he could have slashed under Victor’s swing and into his ribs at any time — but he’s trying to think how to do this without endangering them both.

Finally Victor seems to recover. He straightens up, and fire comes into his eyes as he stands taller. He comes back at Yuuri, halting his retreat, and now Yuuri sees the Victor he remembers. In all their months of training, Victor has never exactly held back with Yuuri, but he’s never been in the mindset of competition either, with all the glory of overmastering an opponent.

Now his sword flashes in the late afternoon sunlight. Victor’s a marvel with a blade in his hands, a nearly untouchable wonder, and Yuuri almost laughs with pleasure as he holds him off. They’ve done this often before, but seeing Victor at the height of his powers is still a joy to Yuuri, even when he’s the opponent. Victor, well-rested and used to the heavier broadsword, swings the katana light and quick, and Yuuri’s hard-pressed to keep up, sweat trickling down his forehead beneath his helm. This is easier than the tourney fighting from before, but it’s still been a long day. 

He’s a match for Victor now, though, and that thought is a joy, too. He might never reach Victor’s skill, but he’s better than he’s ever been. Victor saw something in him, and helped to draw it out, the talents that are Yuuri’s very own.

Now Victor makes a vicious cut at Yuuri’s bad shoulder, sending a twinge of pain through it as the steel strikes his armor. Yuuri gasps, taking a step back and half turning away to protect himself, and when he glances up he sees Victor’s face. There’s a strange expression on it, fierce but somehow regretful, Victor’s eyes wide. _He did that on purpose_ , Yuuri thinks, bringing up his sword again. _He knows my weakness._

There’s a thrill, though, in seeing the part of Victor that wants to win. He might have chosen Yuuri’s strength as a weapon, but the old competitive side in him isn’t gone for good, and the Victor that Yuuri used to dream of is still there. What’s more, he thinks of Yuuri as an equal now, someone to beat by any means necessary, especially in a fight where Yuuri holds the upper hand.

Yuuri’s ready to make full use of that upper hand now, though. He’s tiring, and worried that one of their strikes will go astray, causing real damage. It’s time to bring an end to the show.

Victor raises his sword for another downwards strike, and once again Yuuri isn’t there. He steps forward and pivots, standing perpendicular to Victor this time. He reaches out for Victor’s sword, the way he was taught, gripping above the hilt and yanking it forward in Victor’s grasp. Victor doesn’t expect him to be there, let alone the forceful tug on his sword, and he stumbles after it.

Yuuri makes his final move. Using the energy of Victor’s movement, he grips Victor’s wrist instead and throws him down, rolling him over his shoulder and flat onto his back. As Victor goes, Yuuri knocks the sword from his hand, sending it spinning across the sands.

And then the battle is over.

There’s silence, instead of the horns Yuuri’s come to expect. The crowd is hushed, murmuring low around him. He doesn’t know if the hesitation is because he defeated the prince, or how he did it, but it doesn’t matter. His eyes are only for Victor.

Victor is smiling up at him from the dirt, grinning so hard his blue eyes are crinkled up. He looks delighted, elated, and it’s all for Yuuri. Yuuri can’t help smiling back, wry but happy. He’s finally here, at the pinnacle of his dreams, and they did it together. 

He extends a hand, helping Victor up. When Victor gets to his feet, he doesn’t let go, still grinning down at Yuuri. He touches the side of Yuuri’s neck, curling around it with his hand, and for a wild moment Yuuri thinks Victor is going to kiss him again, like that day in the woods. Instead, Victor removes his own helm, silver braid falling over his shoulder, and bows low with one knee bent, like a subject to his king. Yuuri’s cheeks flare hot, and at last the victory horns blow for him.

“Once again, the champion of the tourney — Yuuri Stark!”

Reluctantly, Yuuri tears his gaze away from Victor’s bent, shining head and turns to look around the arena, taking in the moment. The colorful banners flap in the strong breeze, and the people in the stands are up on their feet, cheering and applauding for him. He sees his sister and Minako in the stands for noble spectators, and little Kenjirou at the gate, clapping wildly. Even Yuri Targaryen looks grudgingly impressed, stiff and stern by the wall of the arena.

At last he looks up at the royal box. King Aerys is no longer standing at the front of it, instead withdrawing to his chair, back amongst the shadows. He’s only a dark, long-bearded figure now, but Yuuri can still see his eyes, and a chill goes through him that has nothing to do with the wind.

*****

This tourney banquet is completely different from the last one Yuuri went to. Or so he thinks; he can’t remember much, but Christophe Lannister is happy to recount the tale again and again, to anyone who hasn’t heard it before. Yuuri drinking, Yuuri dancing, Yuuri making a fool out of himself in front of the entire court. He groans as Christophe begins once again, leaning his head on his hands and turning his flaming face towards Victor.

They bathed and dressed in their room, after the duel. Victor kept smiling over at him, and Yuuri smiled back, helpless. When they entered the hall below, Victor took his elbow, and now it feels like he hasn’t taken his hand off Yuuri’s back for the entire meal. They sit at the high table now, surrounded by Lannisters and Tyrells, all the nobility of the kingdom. Once again, Victor’s father isn’t here, and instead of relief Yuuri feels his absence like delayed bad news, something unpleasant that’s still coming for him. 

In the meantime, though, he leans into Victor’s hand, and tries not to think about later tonight, after the banquet, when they’ll go back up to their room together.

“Make Christophe stop,” Yuuri says, through gritted teeth.

“Mm, but everyone loves this story,” Victor says, and he slides his hand up to grip the back of Yuuri’s neck, squeezing lightly. “If he drinks enough wine, perhaps he’ll perform the song as well.”

“No,” Yuuri groans, though he tingles at Victor’s intimate touch.

“I could probably do it myself, if someone fetches my harp,” Victor says. “The young man with no trousers, tra-la.”

“ _Victor_.”

It’s hard to believe the teasing warmth in Victor’s voice, after their terrible conversation last night. That feels like it was something from another life, competition nerves mixed with the duel Yuuri had just fought and his aching head; his harsh words a decision he wished instantly that he could take back. He thinks Victor knows he’s sorry, because he keeps his hand where it is on Yuuri’s back, thumb brushing over his collar, finding the bare skin of his neck beneath. 

“There’s more to that story than Christophe knows,” Victor says, leaning in to speak low, his breath in Yuuri’s ear. “I’ll tell you later tonight.”

Yuuri’s face goes even hotter, but he nods and straightens up, reaching for his knife and plate again. There’s so much to sort through and untangle, so much to say to each other, but Victor’s hand is still warm on his neck and Yuuri can’t think past that right now.

He defeated Victor. On the tourney field, in the final round, in front of the assembled nobility of Westeros and the king. Before Victor’s father. He won the tourney laurels, the purse and the glory, but nothing was sweeter than Victor’s face as he lay on the ground beneath Yuuri’s sword, smiling up with delight. Like he wanted nothing more in life than to cede the victory to Yuuri.

Lord and Lady Whent have hours of entertainment planned, it seems. Dancers, jugglers, a mummers’ show and a choir of children, each accompanying a new course of the meal. Yuuri eats his fill soon enough, the rich fare too heavy for him after the strain of the day. Victor takes his time, but he too only picks at the later courses, staring forward at the latest round of acrobats with a polite smile of fixed amusement. Playing his part as crown prince, Yuuri thinks, in the absence of the king.

Yuri is absent too, keeping his vigil as a newly-annointed white cloak. That feels like something delayed as well, a tangled connection that Yuuri wants to make right. He hasn’t forgotten the stiff way the boy stood as the king elevated him, so different to that chilly afternoon beneath the trees in the Winterfell godswood, when Victor first knighted them. He hasn’t forgotten their shared vigil together either, or the way the dawn broke over them both. 

As the dinner goes on, Victor moves closer, until Yuuri finds their shoulders pressed together and Victor’s arm around him. Against his temple, Victor’s laughing breath is sweet and warm, and Yuuri ducks his head more than once to hide his flushed face. He hasn’t had as much wine as the last tourney banquet, but enough to make his body feel loose and heavy, as he leans back against Victor’s chest under his arm.

“Have you eaten your fill,” Victor says to him at last, speaking quietly in his ear. 

Tingles go shivering down Yuuri’s back at the feel of Victor’s breath again. He nods.

“Should we retire for the night?” Victor asks. “I’m wearying of the entertainment.”

“We haven’t reached the dessert course,” Yuuri says, his voice too high, and he could smack himself as soon as he says it. He turns his head to look at Victor.

Victor pulls back slightly and smiles, amused. “I’m sorry, I’d forgotten your love of sweets. Of course we can stay, if that’s what you want.”

He’s leaning away but he hasn’t taken his arm off Yuuri’s shoulders, hand wrapped around one, languid and possessive. Yuuri glances sideways at it, then back at Victor. He swallows, nerving himself, willing his voice low and calm. “I think you know what I want.” He pauses and adds, even lower, “Victor.”

For the first time ever, he sees a flush rise in Victor’s face, put there by his own words. Victor seems lost for a moment, eyes glassy, biting his lip, and then he squeezes Yuuri’s shoulder and smiles again. “Then we should go.”

They rise, Victor murmuring polite excuses to Lord and Lady Whent. They’re not the only ones to retire early, and there are other people on the floor of the banquet hall, talking and socializing, but Yuuri still feels like everyone must be watching them leaving together. As they pass the last table on their way to the staircase, he sees Ser Blount, following them with his eyes.

Ser Blount catches him looking, and a cruel, knowing smirk crosses his face. He takes his wine glass and raises it to Yuuri, a sarcastic tilt to his head. The smirk curls up into a sneer, and then he downs the drink, turning away.

It puts a different kind of shiver down Yuuri’s back, chill and foreboding, but then on the stairs Victor takes his hand.

It’s such a small thing, to set Yuuri’s pulse racing, but he’s holding hands with Victor Targaryen, being led down the corridor to their bedchamber, and the world takes on a strange, unreal quality. Victor’s hand is warm and sword-calloused, fingers laced through Yuuri’s, and he walks just a step ahead. Yuuri looks at his broad shoulders, his slim waist, the dancing motion of his walk, and he’s framed by their door at the end of the hall, like the approaching daylight of a rising sun.

And then they’re through the door, into that same familiar refuge. The big bed with the hanging white curtains, Makkachin sleeping on a chair, the trunks and things from their journey south. It took them so long to get here, to this precise moment in time, and for all his yearning Yuuri somehow wants to stop the forward rush of the world, staying just as they are right now.

He shuts the door behind them. Victor turns to face him, not letting go of Yuuri’s hand. He’s so tall, silver hair unbound and gleaming in the lamplight behind him, and his eyes are so beautiful and bright. Yuuri just looks his fill, their gazes meeting with no pretense now, no hidden secrets. Except:

“Tell me the rest of the story,” Yuuri murmurs, still looking up into Victor’s eyes. “When we danced last year.”

Victor breathes out, long and slow. “No one knows the rest of it but me. What you whispered in my ear — ” He pauses, looking like the memory has overwhelmed him.

Yuuri reaches up and takes Victor’s other hand, clasping both tightly. It’s strange, asking for this message from his past self; words that somehow led to this very moment though he’s forgotten them. “Tell me.”

Victor shuts his eyes. “You asked me to come to you. _Teach me, stay with me_ , you said.”

Yuuri can’t help the gasping breath he draws in, squeezing Victor's hands tight. It’s like the last few months are a puzzle turned on its side, pieces spilling everywhere, a new picture forming from the chaos. Himself as both pursuer and pursued, powerful. “ _I said what_.”

Victor opens his eyes, darker than usual now, with the light behind him. “I had to go a long way north to find you. You didn’t make it easy, then or now.” He smiles, a little bittersweet. “Until the other night, I never knew just why.”

“Victor…” Yuuri’s at a loss, but Victor hasn’t moved away. He’s known this all along, and he must have been so confused by the way Yuuri’s acted, but he’s still here. Still standing right in front of Yuuri, their hands clasped together.

Now Victor’s smile is fading, his expression turning as serious before. The lamplight outlining his shining hair gives him an unearthly beauty. “Tell me, Yuuri. Do you still feel the same? Whether you recall it or not?”

Yuuri opens his mouth, trying to find the words. He thinks of what Victor just said, his own request from long ago, and he drops Victor’s hands, reaching up instead to hold his shoulders. “Stay with me,” he says, quietly. “For this tourney season, or…” 

His throat closes up, asking for so much. Victor puts his hands on Yuuri’s waist, circling it, holding him tight. 

“As long as you want,” Victor says, and his voice is so low, shaken with emotion. “Forever, or…a little longer than that.” He leans down, resting his forehead against Yuuri’s. “Whatever you want from me,” he murmurs.

Yuuri’s heart surges now, heavy and pounding hard, taking up so much space in his body. The silence in the room is hot and charged, a solid thing around them. So many possibilities, but he’ll have to ask for all of them.

“I,” Yuuri starts to say, and has to stop to swallow, his mouth dry. He shakes his head a little and stands up taller, putting his shoulders back and lifting his chin. “I want everything from you,” he says.

Victor lets out a low, startled breath. Perhaps at the strength in Yuuri's voice, or the way Yuuri's looking at him, as fiercely as he can. There's a terrible pause, and Yuuri feels like he's suspended in air, waiting for the world to change before him. It’s all or nothing.

And then Victor gets down on his knees like he did in the arena, his eyes on Yuuri the whole time. Yuuri's heart is pounding in his ears now, and he's not suspended, he's falling, everything flying around him. He stares down, his mouth dropping open.

“Ask,” Victor murmurs, so deep Yuuri can hardly hear. He's looking up, hair falling back from his face, and his clear eyes are so bright. “Ask and I'll give it to you, Yuuri. I've been waiting so long.”

For a moment Yuuri can't speak. Then: “Get up,” he gasps, reaching for Victor's shoulders. “Come here, I can’t — don't you know how I've _wanted_ — ”

Victor gets to his feet, looking as desperate as Yuuri feels, and Yuuri slides his hands up Victor's neck to his face, pulling him in. 

He's been dreaming of this since the first time, since last year, since forever. It's better than any of those imagined kisses could've been. Victor kisses him too hard, and Yuuri kisses back, both of them gasping, clinging to each other. Victor's hands are at his waist, pulling his shirt out of his trousers, rucking up the cloth, and then hot on the bare skin of his back. Yuuri pushes his fingers into Victor's hair, winding tight, and kisses Victor's mouth again and again.

He can't think. He can only move, taking a step forward, walking Victor towards the bed. Victor lets out a groan and goes, one hand still beneath Yuuri's shirt and the other cradling his face close, lips closing over Yuuri's lower one.

This can't be real. Yuuri’s heart beats faster than ever, and he's kissing Victor Targaryen in their room, his tongue in Victor's mouth. Learning his taste, his moans, the solid warmth of his chest and the feel of his restless hands.

“Yuuri,” Victor groans between kisses, and fiery tingles surge over Yuuri's skin. He's never felt this hungry before, this powerful. He wants so much.

He takes another quick step, urging Victor onto the bed with his hands, following after. He moves over Victor, cupping his jaw and kissing him ardently. Victor holds him, pulling until Yuuri’s knees slide on either side of his hips and their bodies are fitted together, rocking as they kiss. 

Yuuri wants more. More and more, never enough of this. He pulls hard at Victor's shirt, opening it, buttons snapping off. Victor gasps and arches up beneath him. Yuuri kisses Victor’s throat, beneath his ear, and Victor gasps again and gets a handful of Yuuri’s hair, pulling until Yuuri moans with the sweet ache of it.

It's never been like this in bed for Yuuri before, this pounding reckless surety that everything he does is right. He moves down, kissing Victor's bare chest as he goes, pulling at his belt, and he knows Victor will gasp at that too. He gets Victor's trousers down, shifting to lie between his legs, and then he doesn't even hesitate, grasping Victor's cock and stroking it with the flat of his hand until Victor’s hard and straining.

“Oh, Yuuri,” Victor groans, lifting his hips into Yuuri’s grasp. His fingertips trace the edges of Yuuri's ears, thumbs brushing the sensitive places in front, and Yuuri tilts up to look at him. Victor’s lips are parted and his cheeks flushed, eyes bright as he breathes hard. Yuuri’s thoughts stutter, catching over the image of him, feeling like he’ll never get past this moment again.

But he licks his lips, and Victor lets out a shaky sigh at that and closes his eyes, reaching to cradle Yuuri’s head. Released from the spell, given permission, Yuuri leans down and runs his tongue up Victor's cock.

Victor cries out. Yuuri knows he's not especially wonderful at this, but Victor is so _loud_ , just as he's hardly dared imagine. Victor moans between clenched teeth, his breath rough, and he gives out a deep guttural groan when Yuuri sucks him in earnest, clutching at the back of Yuuri's neck. His long legs are constantly shifting, still-shod feet sliding along the bed and strong thighs quivering beneath Yuuri's hands, through the tight fabric of his trousers. Yuuri feels like he's battling a storm, just keeping his mouth on Victor.

“Yuuri,” Victor says, a desperate edge rising in his voice, sounding dangerous.

Yuuri lifts his head. He's breathing hard, and he knows his mouth is ruddy and swollen. One of his lovers in Dorne always teased him about that, caressing his lips with his thumb after. Yuuri licks them now, readying himself for this moment. “I want you inside me.”

He doesn't look away when he says it, holding Victor’s gaze steady. Instead it's Victor who closes his eyes, letting out a soft, high moan that it goes straight to the pit of Yuuri's stomach, making him dizzy with want. Victor sounds shocked, like Yuuri’s words are too much to bear.

Yuuri moves back up the bed, leaning over Victor and kissing his throat again, softly. Victor’s pulse is quick and hot under his lips, and Victor arches his beautiful neck. 

“I — _Yuuri_ ,” he breathes, sounding helpless. He slides one hand beneath Yuuri's shirt, holding him close, while the other rests on the back of Yuuri’s head, fingers combing through his hair.

“Please,” Yuuri whispers, lips moving against Victor’s skin. For a moment, he doesn't know himself, boldly asking for so much, but Victor's tracing circles on his back and shuddering as Yuuri kisses under his ear, and he thinks if he just keeps going, he can have anything he asks for. He bites Victor's earlobe. “This is what I want.”

Victor sighs, holding him tighter. His fingers wind through Yuuri’s hair. “How do you want me,” he asks, low and husky.

“Like this,” Yuuri says, kissing him once more. “But wearing fewer clothes.”

He sits up, stripping off his shirt as he goes. When it clears his head he sees that Victor hasn’t moved, still looking up at him, flushed and heavy-eyed. He’s aware of Victor’s gaze traveling over his body, lingering on the sores and bruises from the last two days of tourney fighting. When he turns his head he sees a purple mark on his left shoulder, and he looks back to smile at Victor, suddenly feeling giddy and light.

“That one’s yours,” he says, reaching up to touch the bruise. “You went right for my bad shoulder. Should I be honored, that you tried to make it look real?”

With a quick, surprising movement, Victor gets up, propping his hands behind him. His eyes meet Yuuri’s, and he shakes his hair out of his face as he leans in, brushing his lips over the mark on Yuuri’s shoulder.

Yuuri goes still, trembling all over. The heady rush from before is gone, and now he’s in bed with Victor, the man he’s been dreaming of for so long that he scarcely even knew that’s what he was doing when it began. He’s only wanted, and now he _has_.

He cups Victor’s face with both hands, as Victor leans back.

“It was real,” Victor says to him, soft but so certain. “All of it, Yuuri. All real.”

Yuuri leans down and kisses him, hiding his face. There are tears in his eyes, suddenly, and Victor’s arms go around his waist, holding him close. They stay like that for a while, until Victor finally draws away, looking him in the eye again.

“I've never done this before,” Victor says, low. 

Yuuri draws in a soft, quick breath. “Never?”

Victor shakes his head, still looking at him. “It’s — difficult. Being a prince. Everyone wants something from you. Letting yourself be vulnerable like that is…a risk.” He smiles, a little bitterly. “And there was never anyone worth taking it for.”

Now Yuuri breathes faster, realizing how much Victor is trusting him with. He moves one hand to the back of Victor’s head, stroking his silky hair. “And this — are you sure? This is what you want?”

Victor smiles, for real this time. “I’m sure.” His arms are still around Yuuri’s waist, and he lets his hands slide lower, cupping Yuuri through his trousers. “I thought you said fewer clothes.”

Yuuri smiles too, a little watery. “You’ll have to let me move away, then.”

“Mm,” Victor says, and clasps Yuuri a little tighter. “I suppose.”

He lets Yuuri go, though, and Yuuri climbs off his lap. They undress, finally taking off their boots and trousers, and then Yuuri stretches alongside Victor, reaching out to stroke his hand over Victor’s chest. The mood has shifted now, slower and a little hesitant, and he’s careful with his touches, unsure. Victor rolls onto his side and gives Yuuri a serious look, squinting at him.

“I shouldn’t have told you,” Victor says. “Now you’re worried.”

Yuuri shakes his head. “I’m glad you told me. I just want this to be good for you.”

“It will be,” Victor says, and leans forward to kiss Yuuri softly. “Because it’s you.”

They keep kissing for a while, warm and candlelit, learning each other again. Slower this time, so Yuuri can appreciate the way Victor tastes, the way he runs his tongue along Yuuri’s lip before pressing inside, the little hum he makes when they kiss deeply and the way he likes to withdraw, too, pressing kisses to Yuuri’s mouth. He cups Yuuri’s face, thumb stroking his cheek. It’s all so good, and Yuuri could almost stay here all night, just doing this.

A thought strikes him and he pulls back. “Have you kissed someone before?”

Victor laughs. “Yes,” he says, and kisses Yuuri again. “I’m not a complete innocent. My father won’t be out for vengeance against you.”

At the words _my father_ , a chill goes through Yuuri, and when he meets Victor’s eyes he sees it’s the same for him. They look at each other for a moment, stunned and wary, and then Victor leans in, kissing him harder than before. Scenes from the day flash through Yuuri’s mind — the king at the arena wall, his sword at Yuri’s shoulder, his face after Victor’s defeat, half-hidden in the shadows — and then he banishes them, kissing back.

“Let me — I want — ” Yuuri breathes between kisses, the urgency from before rising again.

He gets up on his elbow, and Victor kisses his throat as he reaches to the table beside the bed, searching for something suitable. There’s some oil used for post-training massages, and Yuuri snatches up the little vial quickly, as Victor sucks hard at the side of his neck, using his teeth.

“Lie back,” Yuuri whispers, pushing with one hand on Victor’s chest. Victor goes, rolling onto his back, still kissing Yuuri’s neck with his hands in Yuuri’s hair. He pulls Yuuri with him, and Yuuri gets one leg over Victor’s hip, settling back onto his lap. He lets Victor keep kissing him for another moment, closing his eyes at the feel of Victor’s mouth and hands on him, then pulls away and sits up straight.

Victor looks up and tucks up both hands behind his head, watching. He looks like the powerful, insouciant prince he is, and Yuuri has to swallow hard before reaching down to uncork the vial, slicking up his fingers. Victor’s watching everything he does, and his face grows hot as he gets up on his knees.

But Victor’s expression softens when Yuuri touches himself, mouth opening and his eyebrows going up. Yuuri’s quick at first, wanting to get this over with, but at Victor’s exhaled _oh_ he slows down, making it more of a show. He keeps his eyes on Victor’s, rocking his hips into his own hand, pushing in another finger, and then another. He’s never done it like this before, always shy of being looked at, ready to move on, but Victor keeps looking at him and Yuuri doesn’t ever want that to stop.

Victor moves his hands, reaching to hold Yuuri’s hips. “Yuuri,” he says. “My beautiful Yuuri.”

Yuuri’s face goes even hotter than before. He doesn’t know what Victor sees, but he feels beautiful under his gaze, his touch. He leans forward, bracing both hands on the pillow on either side of Victor’s head, coming in close enough to brush their mouths together.

“My prince,” he says, softly. 

Victor makes a dissenting noise, holding Yuuri tighter. “Not here. Not with you.”

Yuuri shakes his head. “No,” he says, with meaning. “ _My_ prince. My Victor.”

He kisses Victor once more, and then he shifts back, reaching behind to take hold of him. At his touch, Victor’s eyes open wide, and he lifts his hips into Yuuri’s hand, groaning low. 

They look at each other, as Yuuri descends. Settling and slow, working Victor inside. It’s been a while. He can’t ever remember it being like this, feeling everything for both of them. The gradual, solid intrusion, opening him up, but Victor’s side of it too, the way he holds his breath and digs his fingers into Yuuri’s hips, tensing up all over as Yuuri takes him in. Yuuri remembers his own first time, the stunning heat and sensation of pushing inside, and he’d hardly even known the man. Victor is making everything new.

He rolls his hips once more, closing the final distance, and now they’re touching everywhere, his weight resting on Victor again. Yuuri pauses, letting Victor catch his breath; panting hard and still holding Yuuri tight. It feels like neither of them has even blinked.

Yuuri reaches out, stroking over Victor’s firm belly and the light hair on his chest, cupping his jaw and brushing a thumb over Victor’s full lower lip. Victor takes it in his mouth, warm and wet, still looking up with those speaking blue eyes. 

It’s too much, for just a moment. Yuuri shuts his eyes, feeling so full all over, body and soul. They exist here and now, separate from this afternoon or tomorrow, just the two of them in a place he never thought they’d reach.

He opens his eyes. “Can I?” he asks, quietly.

Victor nods, and they begin. 

Yuuri’s sore all over. Knees and back stiff, finding fresh bruises everywhere as he moves. He doesn’t care. He rests his hands on Victor’s chest and works himself on Victor’s cock, lifting and shifting, rolling his body in smooth waves. 

Victor holds his hips tight, pulling him in, and they move together. “Yuuri,” he groans. “Gods…”

Yuuri nods, his mouth hanging open as he breathes hard. It feels so good, Victor inside him, beneath him, arching into his movements. It’s a dance, like sparring in the yard, the give and take of it, but the danger is gone, the furious simmering antagonism of a fight. Yuuri’s already won everything he cares about.

Victor lets out another groan and reaches up to touch Yuuri’s face, pulling him down into a rough kiss. It leaves a little space for him to thrust up and he does, biting at Yuuri’s lower lip. Yuuri’s cock rubs between them now, caught, and he sighs into Victor’s mouth, chasing the feeling as he rocks his hips against Victor.

He feels Victor’s hand move off his hip, trailing over his stomach and down to wrap around him. Victor’s fingers are warm and a little hesitant, just holding him at first, grip light.

“Yes,” Yuuri whispers, between kisses, their lips soft now. “Please.”

He puts his own hand over Victor’s, encouraging. Victor squeezes him tighter and begins to stroke, slowly at first, learning the feel of it. Yuuri’s foreskin slides back and forth and Victor seems to like that, moving to cup the head of Yuuri’s cock in his palm. He glides his thumb along the top and and then presses it to Yuuri’s slit, rubbing gently.

Yuuri groans, closing his eyes. Victor holding him is so much, as he keeps rocking on Victor’s cock. He feels hot and sensitive everywhere, tensed and raw, every touch lighting him up. He takes his hand off Victor’s, bracing it back Victor’s chest again as he sits up and moves faster, arching into Victor’s grip.

“Yuuri, look at me,” Victor says, breathless. He brushes his thumb over Yuuri’s cheek, and Yuuri opens his eyes again.

All he can see is Victor, lying beneath him. Blue eyes dreamy and half-shut, nostrils flaring as he breathes hard. His pale pink lips are damp and slightly open, and his hair spreads out on the white linen pillow, shining in the candlelight. His brows come down more, his hand tightening on Yuuri, drawing the pleasure out of him, and his hips lift to meet Yuuri’s movements, with small hitching rises like he can’t help it, can’t stay still. 

Yuuri just stares. It’s impossible to think of how he got to this moment, and impossible to think of ever leaving it.

Victor strokes him even tighter, moving faster. It’s hard to keep his eyes open but Yuuri does it, groaning softly as the sweet tension builds, hot and close. He grinds his hips down, hands sweaty where they’re braced against Victor’s chest, and Victor moves one hand into Yuuri’s hair, fingers winding tight.

“Yes,” Yuuri gasps, thrusting into his grip. “I’m so — oh, _damn_ — ”

He feels red-faced and desperate, skittering along the edge of ecstasy. Everything is so good, but it’s not enough, not quite, and he doesn’t have the breath to explain. He hunches up his shoulders, rocking harder, and Victor’s eyes are so wide now, watching him. 

“That’s good,” Victor murmurs. “Beautiful — I want to watch you — want to _feel_ you, Yuuri.”

Yuuri’s face flares even hotter, but this is what he needs. Victor’s eyes on him, his touch and his words. He lets out a pained sound, nodding his head, and closes his eyes again as the spark finally catches, the fire building fast inside him. 

“Oh, you _like_ that,” Victor says, still breathless, but he sounds pleased and triumphant. “My beautiful Yuuri. I want to watch you for days. I want to take you home forever, I want you in my bed and with me always, say yes, Yuuri…”

Yuuri gasps twice, harsh and loud, disbelieving. There isn’t enough air in the room and Victor doesn’t let go of him, doesn’t slow or stop. Yuuri feels pleasure rising in him like a hot current that roars through his limbs, making his neck arch back and his knees clamp tight against Victor’s ribs, his body lightning-struck as he cries out. 

There are Victor’s hands, after, caressing his hips and his face, moving down over his neck and up over his sides as Yuuri heaves for breath. His own hands are hot and he rubs them against Victor’s chest, feeling the firm muscle, one thumb resting on the place above Victor’s heart. He can feel it hammering fast, keeping time with the twitching pulse in his own veins, and for a dizzy, wandering minute that’s all Yuuri can think of, that their hearts are moving together like this.

Then he opens his eyes, as Victor brushes the hair from his sweaty forehead. Victor is smiling, and Yuuri does too, a little rueful.

“Did you enjoy — ” he starts to say, but Victor moves both hands to his hips suddenly, and rolls them over in one quick move.

It’s similar enough to the fighting methods Maestra Minako taught, diverting an opponent’s energy, that Yuuri can’t help a startled laugh. Then Victor is over him, above him, silver hair a curtain around them as he leans in, and all Yuuri can do is reach up to cradle his face, pulling him closer.

Victor breathes hard, looking down. “I should probably tell you I’m completely in love with you,” he says, and kisses Yuuri.

For a moment Yuuri can’t breathe again, his heart so full and tight in his chest. Victor’s lips are soft and hot against his, moving over his mouth, and Yuuri just clings to him and kisses back, in this moment that feels beyond words.

Victor’s slow when he begins to move; not awkward, just finding his way, with small swivels and thrusts of his hips. Yuuri hitches up his legs and tucks them around Victor’s chest, ankles crossing in back. They keep kissing as Victor rocks into him, growing more feverish as Victor begins to move faster. Yuuri’s tender and shiver-sensitive still, moaning against Victor’s mouth, but he doesn’t want this to end. He puts his arms around Victor’s broad, smooth shoulders, and breaks off to whisper to him between kisses.

“There,” Yuuri murmurs. “Like that — there, faster, I can take it — if you get up on your knees…”

Victor groans and does it, pushing harder into Yuuri. He takes another kiss from Yuuri’s mouth, deep and hungry, and his silky hair moves as he does, brushing against their faces. It filters the candlelight around them, and Yuuri feels like this is all the world, just the warmth and power of their bodies here together. Victor’s clear blue eyes are half-closed now, hazy with want, and his breath is hot against Yuuri’s face. Yuuri cranes up to kiss him again.

“Yuuri,” Victor breathes, and then whines as he pushes in, sliding deep. “Oh. Gods. _Yuuri_.”

He gets up on his elbows, panting. Yuuri loves the snap of his hips, the soft sound he makes when he’s all the way in, his fast breath. He’s moving without finesse now, eyes screwed shut and his head hanging down, and Yuuri holds him tight everywhere, tensed against the strength of his thrusts.

“Come on, come on,” Yuuri says, low. He’s never had much in the way of pillow talk but he urges Victor on as he gets louder, faster. Finally Yuuri whispers just his name, _Victor_ , and it’s enough; Victor moans, long and desperate, and stops, shuddering all over. He pushes his face against Yuuri’s neck, muffling his ragged shouts, and Yuuri feels Victor’s sweat-damp face and the quivering pulses inside; his trembling body; all these things that make him _real_.

“Victor, Victor,” he whispers again, fiercely, just to make it true.

Victor doesn’t move for a long while. Yuuri can still feel his racing heart, and his breath is still harsh but beginning to even out, slowing. Yuuri rubs circles over Victor’s bare back, drifting a little himself. It feels as if they’ve been on a long journey, through dark forests or deep water, and it will take a while to come back to themselves again. Everything new, everything changed.

At last he feels Victor shift, moving over and away. Victor’s hair drags across Yuuri’s face as he goes, soft and clean, and Yuuri shuts his eyes, breathing in this unexpected pleasure. He smiles, turning to face Victor, but when he opens his eyes again Victor’s face is still and serious.

Victor lies on his side, his head propped on his hand. His strong body is pale and bare and beautiful, and he reaches down, curving his hand around Yuuri’s jaw, holding him tenderly. His hair still shines in the candlelight, tangled now, but Yuuri’s heart leaps to see his eyes, clear again, something sorrowful in them. 

There’s a long, terrible moment. 

“You were supposed to die today,” Victor says, softly. “Die or be shamed, and my father didn’t care which. Yuuri…”

“What?” Yuuri manages to say, as fear pulses through him, tightening his throat. 

Victor shakes his head, once. He strokes Yuuri’s face, and his breath is slow and heavy now. “We have to rebel against my father.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sex scene spoilers: Victor is a virgin. Yuuri is somewhat hesitant, but Victor is an enthusiastic and consenting partner.


	10. Ten - Victor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we’re back! The plot thickens (and, uh, you’ll note the chapter count has grown by one during the mini hiatus — chapter 11 is getting broken into two. I mean, I’m writing in GRRM’s world, how could the story NOT end up longer than intended, haha.)
> 
> Thanks as always to someitems for discussing this chapter and looking it over.

“Gods — come on — _please_ ,” Yuuri gasps in Victor’s ear, hands tight on his shoulders, and Victor finally obliges him.

He's been rocking against Yuuri for ages, kissing him and teasing him with little dips of his hips, slipping in and quickly out. He knows how to do this now; how to move his body, how Yuuri likes to be touched. They did it twice last night, before falling asleep in each other's arms, and then he woke early to find Yuuri curled around him, kissing his neck, stroking his bare chest. It didn’t take long to end up here once again, Yuuri’s legs tucked up and Victor resting above him, exploring each other's mouths as they move their bodies together.

Victor can’t wait any longer, though, and from the way Yuuri sighs and arches his back as Victor pushes inside, neither can he.

“That’s good, put it in, just like that,” Yuuri says, almost babbling as he digs his fingers into Victor’s shoulders. He’s hardly stopped talking since last night, guiding and encouraging, and Victor would grin with amusement if he weren’t so overwhelmed by the sweet slick tightness as he slides in deep. It's amazing, hearing Yuuri talk like this, and it's something Victor never expected. He has to pause a moment, rearranging his hands and knees, because for such a simple act there’s a remarkable amount of moving parts, and then he leans in to kiss Yuuri once again before lifting his head.

“Gods,” Victor sighs, feeling like he’s finally, fully awake. “I could do this forever.”

Yuuri groans sharply when Victor starts moving. His hips are tilted against Victor, knees pulled up, and Victor can tell the angle is good, the way Yuuri moans softly every time he pushes in and out. This is still new, like everything with Yuuri is new, but there’s none of the hesitation or shame Victor always feared with it. Yuuri keeps his eyes on Victor the whole time, long-lashed and wondering, like he can hardly believe what he’s seeing, and Victor feels the same way. 

He groans, dropping his head as he gets into the rhythm. He’s sore from the match yesterday and their long night together, but he’s trained in the yard feeling like this plenty of times. Truth be told he even likes it, the fiery ache in his back and shoulders, reminding him of all that Yuuri’s demanded of him.

Yuuri’s demanding even more now. His hands are in Victor’s hair, tugging gently, and he keeps groaning, murmuring things under his breath. _There, don’t stop, that’s perfect, you’re perfect, give it to me like that, Victor_. And then _Victor, Victor_ , over and over, rising in pitch, making Victor thrill to the sound of his own name as he never has.

“Can you finish this way?” Victor murmurs, into Yuuri’s neck.

Yuuri just nods, breathing hard, shifting his grip. Victor thrusts in a little harder, learning this. What feels good for Yuuri, what makes him moan, tensing up all over. Victor bows his back, trying to get it right, and now Yuuri’s making those sweet hitching breaths that Victor’s already come to love, knowing Yuuri's right on the edge.

“ _There_ ,” Yuuri gasps, moving one hand to Victor’s low back to hold him in place. Victor tightens his jaw and keeps moving, determined to make this happen. Yuuri pulls his hair again, hard enough to hurt, and when Victor grinds his hips down fiercely it makes Yuuri arch up, scratching Victor’s back with his nails as he cries out, shuddering all over.

Victor’s face is so hot, feeling and listening to Yuuri come, as open and unguarded as he’s ever been. This is the third time Victor’s seen this, but he doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to it, feeling Yuuri give way in his arms. They've fought through so much to be here, both the outside world and each other, and he wants to luxuriate in every moment while he can.

He kisses Yuuri, after. This is something he knows how to do well, after all those sweet summer days spent up in the hayloft with the stable boy, before someone found out. Kissing Yuuri is no less thrilling and new, but everything else is different; the way Yuuri holds him, hot and possessive, and kisses him back so thoroughly, like he wants to know every part of Victor, seeking as much as he gives. Victor kisses Yuuri’s mouth firmly, one hand cradling his head. He’s a grown man now, and he isn’t going to let anyone take this away.

Victor finds himself moving again after a while, rocking back and forth with small thrusts, easing into it. Yuuri whimpers against his mouth but doesn’t stop him, just shivers once, thighs trembling. He tilts his head and leans up, kissing the side of Victor’s neck, biting him gently.

“Ah,” Victor sighs, catching his breath. He’s so tired that this all feels like half a dream, hazy and slow. There’s so much else on the horizon, more complicated than this, but right now all he can think of is this syrupy warm pleasure; being in bed together, held and close.

Yuuri drops his head back on the pillow, looking up. His dark hair is sweaty and disarranged, like after the tourney yesterday, and his face is so tired but fond, the way he smiles up at Victor. His brown eyes are warm, and it catches for Victor, suddenly — he’s here with Yuuri, having what he’s wanted for so long.

 _I should probably tell you I’m completely in love with you,_ he told Yuuri last night. Yuuri didn’t say anything back, because Victor kissed him then, not wanting to leave an unanswered question hanging between them. Telling Yuuri what’s been in his heart so long was enough, and he thinks — he hopes — Yuuri is beginning to feel the same.

Yuuri smiles wider now, like he knows what Victor’s thinking, and clasps his hands around the back of Victor’s neck, under his hair. “Come on,” he says, quietly, thumbs brushing Victor’s skin. “I’ve been waiting.”

His words send hot tingles over Victor’s shoulders and down his neck, and Victor gasps, clenching his eyes shut tight. He moves faster, pushing in harder, and leans down to bury his face against Yuuri’s sweat-damp neck. Yuuri holds him tight, murmuring in his ear, and Victor bites his own lip and finally comes with short fast thrusts, snapping his hips against Yuuri. It’s almost too much, and he hears Yuuri moan once, pained, both of them pushed past endurance in the last day. 

Victor pants for breath, lying still. Yuuri’s hands are everywhere, stroking his hair and back, pulling him closer, and Yuuri lifts his head, kissing Victor’s shoulder. 

Sleep beckons, tempting. The room is only just getting light, and Victor’s whole body feels heavy and weak, like he’s abruptly reached his limits. His ears are ringing, and Yuuri is caressing his head now, fingers gentle, tracing his ear and smoothing back his hair. Yuuri’s whispering something too, so low that Victor can’t make out the words. He could just stay here so easily, letting the day and all it holds wait just a little longer.

But he said something else to Yuuri last night, another thing that he didn’t give Yuuri time to answer, covering his mouth with a kiss, and it’s no less important than the first.

Victor groans, protesting the weight of the world, and rolls over onto his side, lifting himself on one elbow. He sighs, looking down at Yuuri. 

“I suppose it’s time to talk of war,” Victor says. Yuuri’s eyes widen, taking in his words, and Victor goes on, flippantly. “Armed rebellion, treason, all that.”

“Victor,” Yuuri says. His tone is low, but it holds a rebuke. “Are you really…did you mean…?”

Victor sighs again, closing his eyes. When he opens them again, the sweet, lingering mood of the last hour is gone, disappearing like gauzy soap bubbles in the cool morning air. He wishes things could be different, but in truth, there’s no future for them together except by taking the hard way.

“My father,” he says softly, and then hesitates. How to tell a life lived in anxiety and uncertainty, watching a stern but beloved father turn unpredictable, unstable? When he was younger he feared his father, and as he grew older his father only gave him more reason to do so. Things changed for the worse after his father’s months-long imprisonment by the Duskendale rebels, but it only hastened what had always been there. 

“You’ve seen him,” Victor finally says. “And there’s so much more you haven’t seen. Everyone at court knows that he’s dangerous, and he’s too far gone to see how unwell he is. He’ll never step down on his own — it’s not the Targaryen way. And I fear what will happen to the kingdom if he’s left to rule.”

Yuuri doesn’t say anything for a while, but Victor can tell he’s thinking, weighing what he’s just heard. At last, he says, “Everyone knows?”

Victor nods, ruefully. “Rebellion isn’t exactly my own idea. Or a new one. I’ve been — approached. Not directly, but through the castle master at arms, my trainer.”

“Ser Yakov,” Yuuri says, as though he’s realizing. “I saw him speaking with you yesterday. It looked more serious than idle talk.”

“This tournament…it isn’t a coincidence that so many of the great houses are here. It’s an opportunity to parley without coming under the suspicion of my father’s spies.”

“His spies?” Yuuri says, looking concerned now. 

“Court politics,” Victor says, shaking his head. “They’re even more complicated than you know.”

“Well,” Yuuri says. “Who have you, er, parleyed with? Or who do you know is on your side?”

“There’s the Tyrells,” Victor says. “Lady Olenna’s been very forthright about it. She’s seen my father at his worst.”

“That’s good. Who else?”

“Lady Regula Lannister,” Victor says slowly. “I think. She’s been my father’s Hand for years, managing the kingdom, and the families are close but she’s very clear-thinking. If we have a solid plan with a likelihood of success, then I think she’ll be on our side.” He winces, thinking of the last banquet at the Red Keep, before he’d left home. The little poison taster’s death, and the fight they'd had afterwards. “She’s seen my father at his worst too, more than almost anyone.”

“That’s two,” Yuuri says. “Two important ones, at least.”

“Three important ones,” Victor says, and glances to the side before continuing. “I spoke with your mother while I was at Winterfell.”

Yuuri catches his breath. “Oh.”

“Briefly,” Victor goes on, looking back to meet his eye. “Your mother is very — perceptive. She understood my meaning immediately. If I do this — if I go to war against my father — I think the north will be behind me.”

“Of course it will,” Yuuri says stoutly, frowning. He reaches up now, touching Victor’s face. “How could you think anything different?”

Victor covers Yuuri’s hand with his own, and for a moment the sweetness of the morning returns, like a comforting place to rest. “I know,” he says, softly.

They look at each other a moment, and then Yuuri goes on. “And you’ll have Dorne, of course. I’ll speak to Phichit. His father doesn’t involve himself much in Westerosi affairs but he has no love for the Targaryens.” He flushes, glancing at Victor. “Sorry. I mean…”

“It’s all right.” Victor lets out a short laugh. “I suppose I don’t have much love for them myself.” He presses his lips together a moment, thinking. “We’ll have to parley in earnest, this time. And I think it’ll have to be done this morning, before my father leaves with his entourage.”

Yuuri groans, then struggles up to a sitting position. “I’ll find Phichit. You're for the ladies Tyrell and Lannister, I suppose. The Tullys and Arryns are allies of both the north and each other — neither Lord Chenglei nor Lady Ines are here, but we can approach their sons. That leaves — Baratheon?”

“Who’s hardly known to either of us, off the tourney field,” Victor says. “Except he seems to have made friends with my cousin Yuri. We might…” He trails off, remembering what happened with Yuri yesterday.

Yuuri’s looking down at him, brow creased in concern. “Making him a knight of the Kingsguard wasn’t meant as an honor, was it.”

Victor shakes his head. “It was a threat. He’s my father’s hostage now.”

“Well,” Yuuri says, swallowing. “Perhaps if we rally enough support, with all the great houses behind us today, your father could be convinced to abdicate without bloodshed.”

Victor just looks at him, cold running all through his veins. This is it, the moment he’s avoided for so long; part of the reason he ran north and stayed there. He’s hoped and wished for something, anything else, but there’s nothing left to do but face it in the light of morning.

He sits up too now, and reaches out to take both Yuuri’s hands in his own. He looks at Yuuri for a long moment, meeting those beloved brown eyes, wide now with anticipation, but still with the same understanding warmth he’s always found there. Victor squeezes Yuuri’s hands, tight.

“Bloodshed can’t be helped,” he says, softly. “This will be war, Yuuri. Ugly and cruel. I never wanted it, but it’s the right thing to do. Are you with me?”

Yuuri catches his breath, looking back. Then he lets it out in a rush, squeezing Victor’s hands back, and nods, once.

“I’m with you to the end,” Yuuri says.

*****

The sun has hardly risen above the horizon before they’ve dressed and eaten the breakfast brought to them by a yawning kitchen runner. Victor lingers over his toilet, and he notices Yuuri doing the same, at the mirror by the window. He thinks they’re both hesitant to leave the confines of the room, this refuge where everything changed for them, and plunge into the imbroglio awaiting them outside. He watches Yuuri part his hair differently for a third time, and then walks over and gently takes the comb from his hand, laying it down and cupping Yuuri’s cheek.

“Whatever happens,” Victor says, and finds he has to clear his throat, suddenly thick with emotion. The clear morning light is coming through the vine-hung window, and it catches the depths of Yuuri’s eyes, making Victor want to do nothing but stare at him forever. Victor brings up his other hand too, cradling Yuuri’s face now, and drops his forehead against Yuuri’s. “Whatever happens today, or tomorrow, I’ll never forget our time together. You changed — everything, Yuuri. I’m so grateful for that.”

He hears Yuuri sniffle, and then feels him nod. Yuuri coughs, once, clearing his own throat. “I don’t have the words, Victor.” Yuuri lifts his head, and his eyes shine with tears. “I’ll try to tell you someday. If we ever get the chance.”

Victor smiles, smoothing Yuuri’s hair. “We will. I swear it.”

Now Yuuri smiles too, watery and rueful. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”

Victor just closes his eyes, and leans in to kiss him, pressing their lips together. Yuuri reaches up to clutch at the front of Victor’s doublet, kissing back hard for a moment, and steps away, pulling out of Victor’s grasp.

“All right,” Yuuri says, blowing out a sharp breath, shaking his head. He smooths his hair, glancing in the mirror again. “Let’s go.”

Outside in the hall, he turns left, in the direction of the Dornish rooms. Victor turns right and descends the staircase, going in search of Ser Yakov. He catches a castle servant sweeping the corridor on the floor below, and receives the welcome information that Yakov is rooming near the other the training masters and not the royal suite.

Victor descends two more staircases and raps at the door. Ser Yakov’s a relatively early riser, but he thinks he’ll still catch him abed, recovering from the previous day’s efforts. Perhaps making notes of the tirade he’ll launch at his pupil when he finally comes down to breakfast.

He’s just remembering, unpleasantly, that Yuri is no longer Ser Yakov’s student, when the door opens.

Ser Yakov squints up at him for a moment, through the tiny allowance that he’s opened the door. His hair stands up in tufts, and Victor can see he’s still in his nightshirt as well.

“Vitya.”

Victor speaks formally. “I come bearing news.”

Ser Yakov squints harder, as if assessing the truth of Victor’s words, waiting for a jest, and then steps back, opening the door wider. 

He crosses the room to sit back on the bed, once Victor’s shut the door behind himself. It’s not much of a room to cross, but it’s clean, and it has a window at least, which is more than Yuuri’s first room did. Victor stays standing in the middle of it, still feeling stiff and formal. They’ve been arguing over this for more than a year, now, and if he’s going to acquiesce to Yakov then he’s going to do it the right way.

Victor tips his head, bowing. “I’ve made alliance with House Stark. They’ve agreed to join me in the rebellion to depose my father, in favor of myself.”

Ser Yakov stares at him for a while, and then snorts with laughter. “You’re joking. After all this time, Vitya? It took a threat to your lover to make you see reason?”

Victor frowns, bristling. “He wasn’t my lover,” he says, and adds, gruffly, “Not then.”

That makes Ser Yakov laugh again, shaking his head. His voice when he speaks is softer, though. “I’m happy for you. But you and the Starks don’t quite make up a commanding force against the might of your father’s army.”

“Lady Olenna,” Victor says. “I thought she was ready to make common cause with us. You implied she was chomping at the bit.”

“She is,” Ser Yakov admits, nodding. “She frightens even me, that woman.”

“And Lady Regula,” Victor goes on.

Ser Yakov holds up a hand. “Did you speak with Christophe or not? You were apparently doing some parleying you didn’t tell me about when you were in the north.”

“No,” Victor says. “But surely — ”

“The Lannister pledge is highly conditional,” Ser Yakov says. “As with everything from that wretched family. Regula is cautious, as you well know, and she’s implied she’ll join your faction only if you have the rest of the kingdom behind you. So far, you don’t.”

“Ah,” Victor says, his heart sinking a little. “Well, Yuuri’s speaking with his old foster brother — ”

“Dorne,” Ser Yakov scoffs. “Well, I suppose they count as part of the kingdom. That leaves at least three families, four if you count the Iron Islands. Lady Regula might not.”

“I’ll speak with her,” Victor says. “I’m sure we can come to an agreement. And with the other family representatives as well, if I can find them before they leave the castle.”

“You’ll have to move quickly,” Ser Yakov says. “I….might be able to speak to Lady Regula myself. We understand each other well. If you can come back with the support of another family, perhaps the Baratheons…”

Victor nods. “Yes. I’ll try my best.”

He moves to leave, and Ser Yakov stands up from the bed again, still in his old grey night shirt. Yakov comes across the room, reaching to put his hand on Victor’s shoulder, and looks up at him. 

“I’m proud of you, Vitya,” he says, gruffly. “That wasn’t an easy decision, whatever your motivation was. I know you hoped things would never come to this pass. It was stupid of you, but…” He shakes his head. “The measure of a person is what they do in the most difficult hour. I’m glad you’ve met the challenge, however long it took.”

Victor nods, and then, impulsively, flings his arms around his old training master. Ser Yakov starts, but he embraces Victor back, sighing sharply, before stepping away, pushing at Victor.

“Go,” Ser Yakov says. “You don’t have much time.”

*****

Victor ascends the stairs again, back to his own chambers to find Yuuri. The room is still empty when he enters it, and Victor wanders to the window, pushing open the mullioned casement and leaning out. 

The castle faces south, onto the enormous God’s Eye lake. The sheet of glassy water stretches away before him, the far shore lost on the horizon, and Victor remembers, suddenly, the day that he and Yuuri sat atop the Winterfell rookery tower. Gulls came north up the river, Yuuri said, and Victor laughed, thinking of the vicious scavengers that quarrel and dive-bomb the wharfs at King’s Landing. 

They came to an understanding that day, the first step on a path that’s led them here, but there’s still such a gap between their lives. Yuuri’s from the quiet north, buried in the snowy woods, his home a bulwark against the ever-present but known threats of cold and wildings from over the Wall. A harsh life, but still and steady too, holding fast.

The southlands are tumultuous and complicated and very, very dangerous, even to those who know them well. Victor’s seen countless members of his father’s court simply disappear, having run afoul of one of the hidden dangers of palace diplomacy. Some quietly, and some not so quietly, facing a trial and banishment, or the headsman’s axe. The people Victor grew up amongst were subtle and skilled, able to wield their tongues as sharper weapons than their knives. Poisonous, treacherous, and no less so for being family.

Victor means to cut through all that. Bring an army down, lay waste to the city, with all the mustered wrath of the conquered kingdom of Westeros. The noble lords and ladies he and Yuuri must rally today are the descendants of the Andals and First Men, the people who lived here for thousands of years before his own ancestors came with the dragons and set about subjugating their land.

It can be their land again, one day. If he breaks the three-century habit of Targaryen royal intermarriage and takes a husband from one of the great houses, if he sets a new line of succession. One of Yuuri’s nieces or nephews can sit the Iron Throne one day, or melt the whole horrible thing down in the forges, if Victor doesn’t do it himself first. No longer ruling the kingdom from a seat made of the swords of its defeated rulers, but making a clean, bright start. A future for Westeros. 

Victor can see it all so clearly before him, there in the morning air, and he gives a start when someone knocks on the door behind him. He turns, crossing the room with dread in his heart — another runner from his father? or his father himself? — but he’s surprised to see two young men when he opens the door.

Guang-Hong Tully and Leonardo Arryn are hardly more than half-grown boys, but the expressions on their face are serious.

“Prince Phichit sent for us, your Highness” Leo says, eyes wide. “He’ll join us here soon, he said.”

“And Yuuri,” the Tully boy adds.

Victor nods, understanding. “You’d better come in.”

The two boys take the seats at the table, while Victor fetches two more chairs and a stool. Phichit must have agreed quickly, he thinks, if these two have already been sent for. He sits down himself, thinking ruefully of what a fresh and dewy war council they’ll make, the four young men and himself the eldest at twenty-four.

“Is this about — ” Guang-Hong says, and then stops. He and Leo exchange glances. 

“About the duel yesterday,” Leo says. “The last one.”

“In a way,” Victor says, carefully. “What did Prince Phichit say in his note?”

“He just told us to come here and wait for him,” Guang-Hong says. “But we just wanted to say…”

He and Leo exchange another glance. Victor appreciates their diplomacy — hardly politic to suggest treason to the crown prince — but he wishes they _would_ suggest it and let him accept already. Two more houses joining his cause leaves him with only Otabek Baratheon to tackle, and the sun is already almost overhead.

“We’re with you,” Leo breaks in. “Er, we support you, Your Highness.”

Victor looks at the door, wishing Yuuri and Phichit would arrive, and then looks back. The boys are young, but he was learning hard lessons at a much earlier age than this. He lays his hands on the table, palms down, and leans in towards them.

“I’m raising an army,” Victor says, low. “We march on King’s Landing as soon as we’ve mustered, where I hope forces from the south will meet us. My father is unfit to be king, and I doubt there’s a subject in Westeros who doesn’t know it.”

He looks at each of them in turn, steady and serious. They’re wide-eyed again, but they both nod.

“Will you join my cause?” Victor asks. “Can you swear your families’ oaths? I can arrange meetings if necessary, but time is running short.”

The boys hesitate a moment, looking at each other. Then Guang-Hong’s brows come down, his face determined as he turns back. 

“You have the Tully pledge,” he says, clenching his fist on the table. “My father trusts me. I’ll send a raven today.”

“The Arryns go as the Tullys go,” Leo says, nodding. “And besides, my mother has always hated your father.”

Victor smiles at that, the tension in the air easing somewhat. “Good,” he says. “She’s far from the only one, I’m sure.”

There’s a noise at the door then, and they all turn to see Yuuri entering, followed by Phichit. The two of them look serious as well, but Phichit smiles as he walks through the door behind Yuuri, bringing his arm across his waist and giving a brief, deep bow.

“Your Highness,” he says, jovially. “About time you made things more exciting in Westeros. Rebellion sounds like a lark.”

Victor frowns at him. “It’s hardly — ” he says, and then Phichit clasps his shoulder.

“Dorne is behind you, all the way,” Phichit says, the bantering tone gone from his voice. “You know how my mother wouldn’t let my sister Elia be betrothed to you? Not because she doesn’t trust you, but your father. She says she saw a bad future in his eyes.”

“Ah,” Victor says. The Dornish betrothal fell apart when he was just a boy, long before he understood the gravity of being married to a stranger for reasons of political alliance. Elia was only a name to him then, and that’s how she remained. “She married a prince of the east, didn’t she?”

“A princess,” Phichit says, and smiles, reaching for Yuuri’s shoulder as well. “So the two of you are really betrothed now? Since Yuuri won the tourney out from under us all.” He laughs. “I don’t think any of us could have beaten you in that final round, especially not with that outlandish sword.”

Victor doesn’t say what he’s thinking, that if anyone else had won the tourney, they wouldn’t have had to face the final round. Yuuri Stark was the only one his father wanted to hurt. “I’m afraid a public betrothal will have to wait until later.” He turns back to the other two at the table, squaring his shoulders. “I have a kingdom to win, first.”

Yuuri takes a seat near him, Phichit on the other side of Yuuri. In truth, Victor wishes they could talk more about betrothal, and the future he’s scarcely dared to dream of for them, but there are so many heavy, needful obstacles in their way first. He spares a sideways glance for Yuuri, though, reaching out to lay his hand on Yuuri’s leg. He’s certain that Yuuri knows what’s in his heart, at any rate.

“So it’s the four of us,” Phichit says, looking around the table. “Anyone else?”

“The Tyrells,” Victor says, bringing his mind back to the serious task at hand. “And the Lannisters, I think, if Lady Regula can be convinced. She wants the kingdom behind me before she joins the cause.”

Leo snorts. “Typical. The Lannisters never play a game they haven’t already won.”

“We have almost everyone now, yes?” Guang-Hong says, in his soft voice. “Except the Iron Islands….I suppose we could talk to Seung-Gil Greyjoy, since he’s here. The Greyjoys aren’t allied with anybody, of course, but he might be willing to listen.”

Phichit shakes his head. “I saw him riding out early this morning. Slinking home in disgrace, I expect.”

“No more disgraced than you,” Yuuri points out. “You both went out in the first round.”

Phichit waggles his eyebrows. “Ah, but I lost to the Winter Swan, the final champion. That soothes the sting, Ser. ”

Yuuri rolls his eyes.

“You’ve forgotten the Baratheons,” Leo says, carrying on the conversation. “They’re as powerful as the Tyrells, and if they choose to stay loyal to the king, they could make a lot of trouble.”

“Would they, though?” Guang-Hong asks. “With the rest of Westeros against them?”

“Like he said, they’re as powerful as the Tyrells,” Phichit says. “There’s been bad blood between the two families for centuries. Dorne has reason to know — and has perhaps played some small part furthering it,” he adds, with a wicked smile.

“Casterly Rock and the Stormlands still up in the air,” Leo says, thoughtfully. “That puts our chances somewhat lower, until we have those two settled. And what about the Daynes of Starfall? They’re a small house, but Ser Michele is on the Kingsguard, and perhaps they’ll stay loyal too.”

“Ser Michele renounced his family loyalties when he took the white cloak,” Yuuri says, frowning. 

“That doesn’t mean his family renounced theirs,” Phichit says. 

Victor raises his hand, and the others fall silent, turning to him. It’s the first thing he’s done as head of a theoretical rebellion that makes him feel like a leader, a potential king, and a thrill goes through him, only half-pleasurable. He’s responsible for so much, now; the fate of a kingdom, and the lives of these four young men, amongst so many others.

“Starfall is small, and their Lord is bannerman to Lady Tyrell,” Victor says, speaking with confidence as he settles their questions. “The Iron Islands, likewise, are of little consequence. If the kingdom is plunged into civil war for very long, they’ll no doubt take the opportunity to rebel against the crown again, and perhaps raid the western shores…but that’s the problem of the Lannisters,” he says, smiling wryly.

“Do you really think Lady Regula will join us?” Leo asks.

“My old training master has gone to parley with her,” Victor says. “It’s not a new subject between them. I have faith in him.”

“What about your cousins?” Yuuri asks, quietly.

Victor sighs. “I don’t know where their loyalties will lie, when pressed. I’d like to think they’d come to my side, given what they know of my father, but it’s hard to say. Yuri…” He shakes his head. “I’m certain my father appointed him to the Kingsguard in expectation of this very situation. If so, he underestimated where _my_ loyalties lie.” 

He looks around the table again, fixing each man’s gaze in turn. “I love my cousins, and my family. I even love my father, or I did once. But I’m undertaking this rebellion because I feel — I _know_ — that I must put the welfare of the kingdom first. King Aerys does as he pleases with his subjects, and he’s bleeding the treasury dry to boot, largely on an enormous stockpile of wildfire.”

Shock comes into the others’ faces.

“Wildfire?” Guang-Hong asks, his mouth wide. “Does he expect an attack?”

“My father sees enemies everywhere,” Victor says, grimly. “There’s enough wildfire in the dungeons beneath the Red Keep to burn the entire city to the ground. I’ve watched him build the arsenal over the past few years and held my tongue, hoping for some better truth than what my eyes told me. That time is past.”

Guang-Hong nods. “I see.”

“We’ll speak to Otabek Baratheon next,” Victor says. “Ser Yuuri and myself. The Whents will have a farewell banquet at midday. We’ll meet back here before then, and hopefully Ser Yakov and I will both have favorable news about our allies.”

He rises from his seat, and the others do the same, talking amongst themselves. Yuuri comes to stand at his side, looking up. 

“How was that for a war council?” Victor says to him, quietly. 

“You could have pounded the table more,” Yuuri says, with a small smile. “But I liked how you listened to everyone’s advice and then followed your own. Very kingly.”

Victor smiles back, and then reaches up to touch Yuuri’s face, laying his hand on his cheek for a moment. Someday he’ll be able to do that whenever he wants, but for now they have to focus on other things.

“Are you ready to plunge into court politics at last?” Victor asks. “I did promise to mentor you in them.”

Yuuri draws in a long breath. “Do I have a choice?”

*****

Otabek Baratheon isn’t in his chambers, but down in the stables, his valet informs them. A hunting party is riding out soon, and he’s apparently a keen bowman when hunting waterfowl. Victor and Yuuri descend to the stables by a back staircase, only to find he’s set out already, and so they mount up and set out in search of him.

The party is hunting along the lake shore. The God’s Eye is one flat sheet of silver now, catching the full morning sun, and almost blinding to the eye. A small group of mounted nobles, Otabek amongst them, are taking aim with their bows at small birds, sent up in the air by the work of hunting spaniels. 

“I should have brought Makkachin,” Victor mutters, as they draw near.

“Is now really the time for pleasure hunting?” Yuuri murmurs back.

Victor shakes his head. “It would have given us some cover for our presence.” He reins up near Otabek, who’s sighting along the waterline with a large bow in his hands, arrow already nocked. “Greetings, ser!”

Otabek doesn’t move. A small brown spaniel splashes up from the reeds in the water, barking its head off, and Victor sees a white flash as a heron takes wing. Even faster than that, the arrow whistles off Otabek’s string, slicing through the air in pursuit. It finds a home in the heron’s breast, and the bird drops from the sky into the water, disappearing with a brief splash.

The spaniel chases after it, and Otabek turns around. His face is still, expressionless beneath his heavy brows. “Your Highness,” he says, nodding his head in a slight bow.

“You’re a fine shot,” Victor remarks. “A shame archery wasn’t part of the tourney. How are you with larger targets than waterfowl?”

Otabek looks uncertain for a moment. “I’ve hunted hart and boar before, with my father and brothers,” he says. 

“Ah, the whole family hunts?”

“Yes, trained to it from the the time we could walk,” Otabek says with a frown. “Did Your Highness seek me out just to talk about my hunting preferences? I see you’re without gear yourself. Perhaps you’d like to give my bow a try.”

Victor shakes his head. “I’ve no skill with it. But,” he says, and hesitates. He looks around, but the rest of the party has ridden along the lakeshore, seeking new game. The little brown spaniel dashes up, the white heron in her mouth, and drops it on the ground, panting for a reward.

Otabek reaches into a pouch on his saddle, pulling out a tidbit of meat for the dog, and Victor makes up his mind.

“I do have need of your bow,” he says. “Yours, and your father and brothers’ as well.”

Otabek has been reaching for the dog’s head, scratching as she stood on her hind legs for the treat in his hands, and now his head whips around, eyes narrowing. The spaniel whines, waiting for her meat. “Speak plainly, sire,” he says, sharply.

Victor doesn’t correct him on the use of the title. With any luck, it’ll be his before long anyhow. “Surely you’ve heard rumors of my father’s….unwellness, even in the Stormlands.”

The spaniel yips, and Otabek drops the food in her mouth. “I know his imprisonment during the Duskendale revolt altered him. I assumed he had recovered.”

“He has not,” Yuuri says, speaking up for the first time. Otabek turns to look at him. “I think you saw that yesterday,” Yuuri adds, softer.

“Raising Yuri to the Kingsguard,” Otabek says, nodding. “He looked more like he was being punished, or threatened. I wanted to speak to him after, but he had to keep his vigil in the chapel last night.”

“My father can’t be allowed to continue running the kingdom as he as been,” Victor says. “Or more to the point, not running it. I don’t know what’s in his mind anymore, but I don’t think it bodes well.”

“It’s the Targaryen curse, isn’t it,” Otabek says, flatly. “The strain of madness that’s been carried down, perhaps in your blood as well. How do I know we aren’t just exchanging one unfit ruler for another, in the long run?”

Victor stares at him for a moment. He hears Yuuri make a noise next to him, leather creaking as he shifts in his saddle, and raises a restraining hand. 

“You don’t,” Victor says, at last, speaking as calmly and evenly as he can. “But only my father has stockpiled wildfire beneath the Red Keep and speaks, in his less lucid moments, of purifying the whole kingdom the way the dragons should have three hundred years ago.”

Otabek stares back at him, his steady gaze unchanging. “I’d like to speak to Yuri, before I commit to any decision.” He flicks his glance to Yuuri, and adds, “The other one. Not that I don’t trust your judgment, ser, but forgive me for not considering you an…unbiased party just now.” He looks back at Victor, nodding meaningfully.

Now Yuuri’s breath hisses between his teeth, and Victor reaches out to touch him, restraining him more physically this time. This tourney is Yuuri’s first brush with real court politics, he remembers, and today is the first obstacle he couldn’t just swing a sword at.

“That’s a fair stipulation,” Victor says. “My cousin should have finished his knightly vigil, and be at your disposal, if he’s not sleeping it off.” He clucks his tongue. “Poor boy, having to do all that again — ”

His words are cut off by the silvery sound of horns, coming from the direction of the castle. Victor turns to see a small party riding across the fields, hailing him. As the riders draw closer, he recognizes one of his father’s attendants amongst them, her raven hair held back in knots and braids.

“Your Highness!” she says, reining up. “Your father is preparing for his departure. You are summoned to the great hall of the castle.” She looks around the little group, eyes narrow and serious in her dark face as she relays her orders. “All of you.”

Before Victor can ask her anything, the attendant kicks her horse into a trot and sets off in pursuit of the rest of the hunting party. He turns back to the other two. Yuuri’s expression is puzzled and blank, while Otabek looks set and suspicious.

“All of us?” Yuuri asks.

“The tourney isn’t over yet for my father,” Victor says, grimly. “Not until he’s asserted his victory. Likely this is just some fresh humiliation for me; come on, let’s get it over with.”

“I think you underestimate your father,” Otabek says, low, but he follows Victor back to the castle.

*****

A crowd has assembled when they return from the stables. It’s as large as the banquet last night, but the air of celebration and merrymaking is gone. The people here look anxious, glancing amongst themselves, awaiting some pronouncement from their capricious and distant king. Victor doesn’t blame them for wishing to be elsewhere; he certainly does.

He takes his place near the back of the crowd, intending to observe quietly before making himself known. Despite his light words, he shares Otabek’s foreboding about this gathering. Whatever his father intends, it’s almost certainly directed at the rebellion he has to know is fomenting amongst his high-born subjects. 

“There are Ser Yakov and Lady Regula,” Yuuri says to him, quietly, tipping his head to the far end of the hall. Victor waits a moment before turning his head. The two are standing silently next to each other, not conversing, and he can’t glean anything from either of their expressions. There’s no way to know yet what Lady Regula has decided.

He hears a murmur from the people standing near the corridor, and then attendants enter the hall, followed by armed guards. His father appears next, flanked by his Kingsguard in their gleaming white cloaks and enameled mail, Yuri standing out amongst them all in his plain steel. Aerys ascends the dais, standing alone behind the high table.

“Was there really a dispute between the white knights last night?” Victor hears someone murmur on the other side of him. 

“Aye, and one resigned his commission on the spot,” another person whispers back. “I can’t imagine the king is any too pleased.”

Victor frowns. He scans the white figures arrayed behind his father, and realizes one is missing; the tall, red-haired figure of Ser Michele Dayne, nominated to the Kingsguard just two years ago. He wonders what happened last night, and his heart thrills to think there might be another addition to his list of allies, if the Daynes haven’t already left Harrenhal.

His father clears his throat. “We first announce the elevation of another knight to our Kingsguard,” he says, in his reedy but commanding voice. “Today Ser Rickard Blount takes the white, in sworn service to his king.”

Victor’s head jerks around, as a smattering of applause rises from the audience. The man Yuuri fought twice this week, first in the tourney and then out on the campgrounds, emerges from the crowd, joining Aerys and the other knights on the dais. He wears the same nasty, crooked smirk from before, as if he’s assessing everyone around them, taking their measure. He bobs his head before the king, then kneels.

Someone hands Aerys a sword, and he knights Blount again, anointing him. Victor can hear Yuuri’s fast, labored breathing next to him. 

“Steady,” Victor whispers. He reaches out and takes Yuuri’s elbow, squeezing it.

“That man’s an insult to the white cloak,” Yuuri whispers back, fiercely.

Victor doesn’t tell Yuuri what he knows from long experience, that the white cloak is only as fine and honorable as the person wearing it. He’s known noble knights and ignoble ones too, and all shades in between. Ser Blount is probably no worse than the knight who used to take sadistic glee in the nighttime practice attacks when Victor was a child, holding a knife to his throat and smiling at his struggles.

“He won’t wear it long,” is all Victor says.

“For our second pronouncement,” his father says loudly, startling him. “We command our son to come to the front of the hall, not skulk at the back like a truculent child. Victor, if you would.” He inclines his head, sarcastically. “Your paramour too, if he wishes.”

Victor catches his breath. He isn’t sure how to respond to the second part of the command — bringing Yuuri would declare his father’s words as truth, and while he wants nothing more than to shout his love from the rafters of the world, he doesn’t want to expose Yuuri to any further danger. Not yet, at least.

He lets go of Yuuri’s arm and steps forward. The crowd parts for him, a hush descending. In the silence he hears another set of steps ringing out on the stone floor, and he’s seized by a tangle of emotions — fear, relief, love — when he realizes Yuuri is right behind him. 

At last they’re standing in the clear space before the dais, craning their necks up to meet his father’s eyes. Victor has no doubt that’s how Aerys wanted it, as though they’re the prisoners in the dock and he’s the judge of their fate. _Calm, cool, and collected_ , Victor tells himself.

“I await your pleasure, sire,” he says aloud.

His father snorts, looking amused, and then glances between the two of them. Victor doesn’t dare take his eyes away, but he burns to know what expression Yuuri is making. He’s never come face to face with the king before this, and Victor wishes now that he’d taken the time to instruct Yuuri in at least the bare essentials of court politics. Not etiquette so much as how to keep a schooled, blank mien, never letting anything essential slip through. Mad as he is, Aerys has a lifetime of subtlety and craft that Yuuri, growing up in the plain, straightforward north, could scarcely dream of contending with.

“Our pleasure,” Aerys says. “You seem determined to thwart that at every opportunity, boy.”

Victor says nothing, blinking languidly.

“Our pleasure is this,” his father says. “You’ve been at play long enough. We are returning home today. You can prepare yourself for the journey immediately, following us to King’s Landing, and resume your old duties as crown prince of the realm and heir to the Iron Throne. Or.”

Aerys pauses, letting it linger, and then looks up, glancing around the room. It seems that he’s making certain every single person in the hall is listening to his words, as though he were swearing a binding vow. At last he looks down at Victor again, and his blue eyes are full of cold fire.

“Or you can consider yourself disinherited and persona non grata within the kingdom of Westeros. Not even the dogs will stoop to acknowledge you, as you are hounded from our shores to exile or worse.”

Victor goes cold, fighting the shivers that overtake him, keeping his body still by clenching his jaw. 

His father smiles then, a terrible, toothy grin full of rot and decay and cruel delight. “Your lover can accompany you, as you choose,” he adds. “There will, of course, be no talk of an unsuitable match, such as I’ve heard rumored these last few days.” He looks around the room again, narrowing his eyes, and Victor can almost feel the crowd shrinking away behind him. 

“You are a prince of full Targaryen blood,” Aerys says to him. “Our pleasure is simply that you remember it.”

Victor draws in a breath, steadying himself, and then makes a full, sweeping court bow. _The last time I bow to him_ , he thinks to himself. 

“I hear and acknowledge your commands, sire,” Victor says. 

Nothing more. When he looks up, his father is still staring at him, with such open hate in his eyes that Victor almost quails before it. He’s not sure how they could have lived in the same palace all these years as father and son. His father has never loved anyone or anything.

The die is cast, in this moment. It’s war between them now, and Victor wonders, for a few heart-stopping, breathless moments, what his father will choose to do.

“Until we meet again,” is all Aerys says, and then he turns away.

Slowly, air and life enter the hall again, after his departure. Conversation springs up around them, a low buzz, though no one approaches Victor. He stays where he is, staring at the closed door, thinking of everything and nothing at once.

Yuuri touches his arm. 

“I thought,” Yuuri says, sounding shaken. He pauses, catching his breath. “I thought he might make a move right then. Take you prisoner, or demand your loyalty. His eyes…I’ve never seen anyone look like that before.”

Victor turns, looking back over his shoulder, and shakes his head. “He doesn’t know the extent of my allies yet. It wasn’t wise to move openly here, here in front of so much of the assembled nobility. He’d rather face me on his own ground, back home.” He tightens his jaw, glancing back at the door. “Where his army and his arsenal are.”

“Do you really think he’d burn down the entire city?” Yuuri asks, softly.

Victor shakes his head again. “I have no idea what my father is really capable of. I expect we’re about to find out.”

*****

Upstairs in their chambers, Yuuri moves around the room, putting things into chests and trunks, while Victor collapses in a chair. He’s suddenly exhausted, as though all the strain of the day is wearing on him at once, and it’s almost impossible to believe it started so sweetly, the two of them together in this bed. The memory of it stirs longing in him, and he glances over, watching Yuuri move as he bends and reaches, packing and tidying up. The time isn’t right, with the rest of their allies expected at any moment, but he can’t help admiring the curve of Yuuri’s neck and waist, the set of his shoulders, his beautiful profile. He’s wanted to look for so long, and now that it’s allowed there’s no time for it. The world is cruel indeed.

Victor frowns, then, realizing. “Why are you doing the packing? Where’s your squire?”

Yuuri straightens up, and a strange look crosses his face, both anxious and fierce. “I should have told you before. We have one more ally.”

“Oh?” Victor asks.

“I met Kenjirou on my way to Phichit’s chambers. I only had time to give him the barest outline, but he’s already on his way north, gone to raise his people in the marshlands.”

Victor thinks of the tow-headed young squire, riding hell for leather to muster an army of frog-spearers and bog fishers. He smiles. “That’s good.” 

“And I asked him to send a raven to Mother,” Yuuri adds, quietly. “Telling her to dispatch Takeshi with as many men as the defense of Winterfell can spare, and to recruit from the villages and farmlands as they come south. The strength of the north will be here within the month.”

There’s nothing pleasurable about the thrill that sets Victor sitting bolt upright, as though his spine were made of iron now. After years of shying away, keeping it in the back of his mind, the rebellion against his father is taking shape almost without his guidance, unfolding as if it were destined. The houses of Westeros allied behind him. Northern soldiers on the move, here in just a few weeks.

“Yuuri — ” he says, and then there’s a knock on the door.

He expects the Tully and Arryn boys again, and he’s surprised to see the chiseled, beautiful features of Lady Regula Lannister in the hall. Her pale gold hair is pulled back tightly from her face in a braided coronet, and she has the same expression she’s always had — cold and set, fair and unyielding. She’s seen everything, and judged it all too.

“Your Highness,” she says, in her low, crisp voice. “Victor. I wish to speak with you.”

“Of course,” he says, stepping back. “Come in.”

Lady Regula doesn’t take the seat that Victor offers her, choosing to remain standing in the middle of the room. She’s alone, to his surprise, and she takes a long, measuring look at him and then at Yuuri, standing frozen by the bed with a half-folded shirt in his hand.

“I expected Ser Yakov to accompany you,” Victor says. He stays standing too, holding himself upright.

Regula shakes her head. “The time for intermediaries is past. Your father has seen to that.”

She sounds offended, as though a breach of court etiquette has occurred, rather than near-open war between the monarch and heir. Victor has known her much of his life, but never intimately; her mind is a well-oiled and secret machinery, calculating everything and coming to the necessary conclusions. He can only hope she’s come to a favorable one now.

“Yes, my father has acted rather…irrevocably,” Victor says, cautiously. “I’m afraid I only see one course of action open to me.”

Regula raises an eyebrow. “Really? It seems there are many, though some whose likely results are less pleasant.”

Victor looks straight at her. “For myself or for the kingdom?”

She takes in a sharp breath, through her nose. “Your Highness, as Hand of the King my concern is only for the kingdom.”

“Then you know which course we must take,” Victor says, levelly.

Now Regula sighs, long and regretful. “I agree that some action must be taken. I assume you have the pledges of the great houses behind you?”

“All but Baratheon,” Victor says. Regula frowns.

“That’s no small exception,” she says. “The Stormlands are close enough to King’s Landing, and the Tyrell holdings, to make them a formidable enemy if they don’t at least keep themselves neutral. If they should choose to back your father…”

“I have no reason to believe they will,” Victor says. “But — ”

Just then there’s another knock from the hall. He glances over his shoulder at Yuuri, who’s been listening silently, and Yuuri crosses the room to open the door.

“Ah, Otabek,” he says, and Victor can hear the relief in his voice. “I’m glad to see you.”

“Really?” comes from the hall, and Victor tries not to smile at the suspicion in Otabek’s voice as he enters the room. 

Otabek glances at Regula and gives her a brief bow, as Yuuri shuts the door behind him. She gives a curt nod in return.

“You have company,” Otabek says, frowning at Victor.

“I think you'll find Lady Regula just as interested in what you have to say as I am,” Victor says. “If it concerns what I think it does.”

“I'm no good at flowery court language, or playing your political games,” Otabek says, bluntly. “I'll tell you the truth — my father is dying, and my concern should be for the seat I’ll inherit soon. My brothers are young, but ambitious in their own ways. But….” He hesitates.

“Yes?” Victor asks, holding his breath.

“Your father is holding your cousin Yuri hostage now, and we both know it’s to keep you in check. If you rebel…I don't like to think what will happen to him.”

“Have you come to ask the prince to keep the peace for the sake of one boy?” Regula asks, sounding surprised.

Otabek shakes his head, clenching his fists. “No. I've come to offer my family’s pledge. I want this war over with as quickly as possible, so I can return home and take up my duty. And I want to see Yuri safe before I do that.”

“The hero of the Stormlands,” Victor says with a smile. “Your bow is appreciated.”

Otabek grimaces. “My bow is for hunting game. I have a warhammer for war,” he says. “I assume all the other houses have pledged their support?”

Victor looks at Regula. She gives him a long, cool look in return, then presses her thin lips together. “I’ll speak to Christophe. What he doesn’t already know, he’ll have worked out for himself. We’ll return home, and decide on the best course of action.

 _For Casterly Rock, or for Westeros?_ Victor wonders, but he nods, acknowledging. Regula doesn’t make decisions swiftly, and this is perhaps the most he could hope for today.

“What now?” Yuuri asks softly, from behind him.

Victor had nearly forgotten Yuuri’s presence, during the discussions. He turns now to see Yuuri watching them, a pile of folded shirts clutched against his chest. For the first time, Victor wonders how Yuuri must feel about all this, to have come for a tourney and found himself embroiled in a civil war, a side already chosen and his choice irrevocably made. 

“We marshal our forces,” Otabek says, clipped. “When Aerys returns to King’s Landing, he’ll close the city gates and the waterways against us. We must be prepared for a siege.”

Yuuri nods. “Winter’s only just ended, so their stores will be depleted…but we’ll have to live off the land ourselves. And I assume mustering an army will take time.”

“There’s the matter of the chain of command,” Otabek says, turning to Victor, looking him up and down with a critical eye. “You’re the leader of the rebellion, but perhaps we should crown you king first, Your Highness. To secure the claim.”

Victor shakes his head, violently. “When the war is over. I don’t want any titles I haven’t earned.”

Now Regula nods. “A wise choice, I think.”

Victor doesn’t like the tone in her voice, still detached and considering, and he doesn’t trust what will happen once she’s back at Casterly Rock in the west, secure inside the remote ocean fortress. It would be all too easy for the Lannisters to wait for the battle to be decided before choosing the winning side.

“I have ravens I must send, if I’m to raise the Stormlands,” Otabek says, abruptly. “The Kingsroad south will likely be held against me already.” 

“And you, Ser Stark? What are your plans?” Regula asks, fixing her gaze on Yuuri.

Yuuri swallows, and puts down the clothes in his arms, glancing at Victor before he speaks. His face is pale, but his eyes are serious and bright. “Riding to meet my people. The strength of the north is already on the move.”

“Well,” Regula says, and when she looks at Victor there’s dry, sardonic humor in her eyes. “You’ve certainly managed to win the loyalty of your banner houses. Let’s hope for your sake that your next challenges all go so smoothly. I will communicate my decision when it’s been made.”

She smiles, tightly, and departs, followed by Otabek. The room is silent, apart from the low crackle of the fire in the corner.

Victor moves across the room now, coming to stand before Yuuri. He wishes they had had more time, to be together and know themselves apart from all this, the very political entanglements he went to Winterfell to escape. But he knows they never will, if they can’t find their way through this first.

Yuuri lets out a long sigh, looking up at Victor. He licks his lips. “Will it always be like this?”

“Worse,” Victor says. He reaches out to cup Yuuri’s face, tenderly. There’s no _time_ , and his heart aches for it. “But easier with you beside me.”

Yuuri snorts, and then wraps his arms around Victor’s waist, burying his face against Victor’s chest. “That’s a great comfort,” he mutters. “Especially to everyone who isn’t us.”

 _Do they even matter?_ Victor wants to ask, but no, he’s waging war against his father for the sake of Westeros and all the people in it. If he only cared about Yuuri and himself, they could have taken ship for the eastern continent and never looked back.

Instead he drops his face against the top of Yuuri’s head, kissing his hair. “We’ll draw strength from each other,” he whispers. “And be strong for the others, together.”

Yuuri sighs, his shoulders raising and then dropping, and embraces Victor tighter. There’s no time left to them, but Victor holds Yuuri in his arms, for just this little while.


	11. Eleven - Yuuri

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> War! Warnings in this chapter for some mentions of blood and death, but no graphic/detailed violence.
> 
> It would probably be helpful to look at this map of Westeros, if you aren’t familiar with it:
> 
> http://www.manolith.com/2013/03/06/sports-illustrateds-game-of-thrones-map-of-sports-is-pretty-great-photo/westeros-map/
> 
> And especially this map of the Red Keep:
> 
> http://joannalannister.tumblr.com/post/32515128229/map-of-the-red-keep-shamelessly-taken-from
> 
> Thanks greatly to someitems and shdwsilk for reading over this chapter.

Yuuri’s glad, now, for all the nights they camped by the kingsroad on their way to Harrenhal. He's gotten used to bivouacking — washing in cold water, eating food cooked over a fire, sleeping on hard ground. The ache in his muscles after a hard day’s ride, the smell of smoke in his hair, the sounds of the camp at night.

He doesn't think he’ll ever get used to war.

They rode north from Harrenhal first, to meet his people. Takeshi’s army came slowly, mustering soldiers along the way, and their party was almost to Moat Cailin before overtaking them, even with the wheelhouse in tow. 

Maestra Minako flatly refused to return to Winterfell. “I’m no old woman, keeping warm on the hearth. I’ve lived more life than you think, boy, and I’ll live a good while longer. And besides, you may have use of me yet.”

That _boy_ was directed at Victor, and Yuuri had to smother a smile. Leave it to his old teacher to speak so to the presumptive king of Westeros. Victor just smiled, amused, and shook his head. “All right. There hasn’t been a maester or maestra in the Red Keep since my father had the last one banished. I’m sure your learning will be of some aid.”

She snorted, but her stiff posture relaxed somewhat, as much as it ever did.

Mari did continue northwards, after swearing fealty to Victor and giving the Stark family pledge. “I can be of more use to Mother at home than to you in a war camp,” she told Yuuri, bluntly. “And the ravens know where to find us.”

She took Makkachin with her, at Victor’s reluctant request. “A war camp’s no place for a hunting dog either,” Victor said, getting down to embrace Makkachin once more, her paw on his shoulder. “We’ll come north for her soon, I hope.” He got up slowly, and brushed the dirt from his trousers but not the tears from his cheeks. 

And then Takeshi knelt before Victor, cap in hand. “The armies of the north are yours to command, sire.”

Yuuri saw the look that flashed over Victor’s face, the momentary discomfort and panic, before Victor steeled himself, nodding and wiping his cheeks at last. “Keep the command a little longer, ser. I fancy you know your business better than I do yet.”

South of Moat Cailin they met a second, smaller army. Clad in skins and armed with spears, the people of the marshes walked the kingsroad with caution and suspicion, but Yuuri recognized the familiar bright-haired figure mounted at the head of the column.

“I remembered the way to Greywater Watch!” Kenjirou said excitedly, when Yuuri caught up with him. “Or at least I found it in the end, thanks to the old signs. It took some convincing, but my mother hasn’t been forgotten by her people. The chief sent me with the better part of his army.”

“Thank you,” Yuuri said, sincerely. The “army” was scarcely a squadron compared with the northern forces, but he knew its meaning. The whole of Westeros was uniting behind Victor, in this crusade to be rid of his father. 

They passed out of the marshlands, the wet roads turning to red dirt, and then they were in the central riverlands once more.

Yuuri couldn’t stop thinking of how different this ride south was from their last one. The mounting dread was the same, but it seemed laughable that he could have been so worried over something as meaningless as a tourney before. So much in the balance now, the peace of the kingdom and his own future. The peasants in the fields and small towns stopped and stared as they watched the might of the north pass by, heavily armed and heading to war. 

At the Trident, the great conjunction of rivers in the middle of the land, they overtook another army, much greater than the marsh people. This was the combined strength of Riverrun and the Eyrie, led by Lady Arryn and Lord Tully themselves. Their sons rode together, along with Leo’s elder sister and Guanghong’s younger brother, all bearing arms, and Yuuri winced to think of how much was at stake here. The youth of the great houses could be lost in one battle, the future forever altered.

They rode further south, past the great God’s Eye lake, shining in the west. Yuuri’s heart yearned now for his days on those shores, for the night he spent with Victor in colossal, crumbling Harrenhal, but those times, tumultuous and tender, were past. He’d been crowned tourney champion twice over, but that already felt so distant, like the games of childhood.

Southwards they continued, following the river, until at last they came within sight of the docks and towers of King’s Landing, surrounded by the circling gulls Victor once spoke of, where the war had already begun.

The Tyrell forces had come from the southwest, at the word of Lady Olenna. The Baratheon forces were still mustering from the southeast, but their fleet had already sailed up the coast from Shipbreaker Bay, come to blockade the capital’s port. The many portcullises of the city were shut against the attackers, defenses mounted, and Yuuri saw Victor’s mouth go grim and narrow as they rode nearer. 

“This will be no swift siege,” Lady Arryn said, behind them.

They had joined forces with the Tyrells, to the west of the city, and made their camp. That was a fortnight ago, and little has changed since then.

Siege warfare, Yuuri has learned, consists largely of each side flinging heavy objects at the other, and trying to wait each other out until someone starves. The Red Keep would seem to be at a disadvantage, cut off from the outside world, but keeping a massive army fed and supplied isn’t an easy task, especially at the end of a long winter. They’re already on short commons as it is, and Yuuri hears grumbling from the soldiers when he walks the camps.

Which he does, often, having little else to do of practical use. Victor’s in field meetings all day long, conferring with Ser Yakov and the great lords and ladies over strategy both large and small. He tells Yuuri about it later — whether to move their attacks to the north or the south, to vary their tactics, to attempt another parley — but it all seems like shifting sands to Yuuri. The Dornish forces are making their way north, while the Lannister support is still uncertain, and it feels as though they’re still playing out the opening moves of a game of cyvasse. The real stratagems have yet to be deployed.

King Aerys has made no communication since they arrived. He didn’t negotiate with the Tyrell faction either, simply shut the city gates and began the artillery barrage that evening against the forces camped outside his door. Yuuri can’t think what his endgame is, given that he must know that almost the whole of Westeros is allied against him, and it makes Yuuri anxious, thinking of the mad king shut up with enough wildfire to burn the entire city to the ground.

He knows it’s getting to Victor, too. They sleep in the same bed, but nothing more, holding each other through the uneasy nights. Their bond feels stronger than ever, but deep and unspoken, like it’s waiting for something as well. They’ll have to remake this world to find a place for themselves in it.

Yuuri’s out walking the camp grounds when he sees marchers coming up the Kingsway from the south. The flags snapping in the breeze are colorful and bright, and he knows Phichit’s people have arrived at last. 

Unlike Otabek, Phichit left Harrenhal the day after the tourney. “I don’t trust ravens,” he said, “and neither do my parents. Mustering Dorne will require my words in person, not carried on the wing.”

“You’ll never get past King’s Landing,” Yuuri said, frowning in concern. “Aerys will arm the country behind him as he goes.”

Phichit winked. “Ciao-Ciao’s traveled the southern countryside often, in his days as a hedge knight. He’s told me he’ll find our way home, and back north again too.”

It seems his old training master has kept to his word, Yuuri thinks, watching the battalions come up the road. They’re clad in the beautiful enameled armor of Dorne, carrying sharp spears and bows, along with light shields, and he finds his mind going the same morbid way as always, imagining how many of them will have to perish before the kingdom is safe.

Yuuri attends the parley that night, working his way through the crowds in the pavilion to find Phichit. His mother, Princess Nathida, is in the midst of the other nobles, arguing with Lord Tully over something, and Phichit smiles hugely when he sees Yuuri.

“At last, a friendly face,” Phichit says, embracing him. “It seems there's been nothing but argument since we arrived.”

“There's been nothing but argument for weeks,” Yuuri says, darkly. “The Lannisters still haven’t sent word whether they intend to join us or the king. No one wants to make a move without knowing if they’re about to plunge a knife in our backs.”

Phichit just smiles, shaking his head. “I never thought I’d see the day when you took an interest in politics. Love has changed you, Yuuri.”

Yuuri flushes, ducking his head. “This is more than just politics,” he mutters. “Can’t you be serious, even in wartime?”

Phichit claps him on the shoulder. “War is just as ridiculous as love, my friend. One’s a lot of shouting and mess, and the other is war.”

There's a noise from the center of the pavilion, and Yuuri turns to see Lord Tully speaking loudly at Lady Arryn, hammering the table between them with his fist. She's a small woman, her dark hair braided in loops over her ears, but her brown, stern face is unmoved. Lord Tully’s small too, round and portly, and they glare eye to eye as the argument spreads around them.

“Lord Chenglei and Lady Inez have been friends since they were fostered together as children,” Yuuri says. “And now look at them. The longer this siege drags on, the more our alliances are breaking down.”

“Why the delay?” Phichit asks. “Just over the Lannisters? To blazes with them, and their mountains of coin as well.”

Yuuri shakes his head. “They're waiting for something. I'm not certain what.”

“Victor doesn't talk to you about it?” Phichit asks.

Yuuri’s about to answer when he hears someone clap their hand together, loudly, and then Victor’s raised voice.

“Ladies and gentlemen.” Victor pauses, and Yuuri sees him smile as he steps forward, glancing between Tully and Arryn. “That is, if we can still lay claim to those civilized titles. With arrival of Princess Nathida and her forces, the mustering of our allied armies is complete. I think it’s time we speak seriously of moving on King’s Landing.”

There's a grumbling throughout the pavilion, and Yuuri hears Lady Regula’s name mentioned. He exchanges a glance with Phichit.

“Yes, yes,” Victor says, raising his voice again. “We have yet to hear the decision from Casterly Rock. However, scouts have been posted along the Goldroad, and today I received word that the Lannister host is marching south.”

The grumbling rises again, louder this time. Lord Chenglei looks at Victor, frowning.

“How do we know it’s our cause they’re coming to support?” he asks.

Victor lifts his hands, shrugging grandly. “We don’t. Perhaps the decision hasn’t even been made. All the more reason to make our move now. If they are unfriendly, it seems better that we hold the capital when they arrive.”

Lord Chenglei nods, and Lady Inez speaks up next. “What do you propose, in regards to an attack?”

Victor looks over at Otabek Baratheon. “I understand the majority of the Storm’s End fleet has sailed up the eastern coast into Blackwater Bay, and is now close enough to enter the Rush at any time. My suggestion is to take the city from the waterfront.”

More muttering. Finally Princess Nathida speaks up, her voice high and clear. “Your _suggestion_ , Your Highness?”

“I’m no seasoned campaigner,” Victor says. “I’ve studied the art of war, but only from my tutor’s books. I’ve already learned that knowing how to swing a tourney sword isn’t the same as a real battle,” he says, with a brief smile at Yuuri. “But I mean more than that.”

Victor looks around the room, and Yuuri sees him catch the eyes of his great banner lords and ladies in turn. “I am not your king, not yet. This rebellion has been mounted in my name, but I understand that every person here has their own considerations, as well as their own opinions. I make no commands by fiat. If this coup is to succeed, it will be by the united decision of the leaders here tonight, not by the exercise of my will alone.”

He clasps his hands before him as he speaks, and Yuuri’s heart aches, somehow, watching him. He knows this was never what Victor wanted, civil war and strife, but he’s here now, doing his best. And, Yuuri thinks, it won’t end here; ruling a kingdom must be far harder than winning one.

“So,” Victor goes on, his voice lighter now. “My _suggestion_ is to launch an attack on the walls from the Storm’s End fleet, and take the city through the Mud Gate. I cheerfully await all your explanations as to why this is a terrible plan.”

After a brief silence, though, Victor’s old training master speaks up. He’s been here with the Tyrell forces from the start, and is the most familiar with the city’s defenses, of course. “It’s not a particularly clever plan,” Ser Yakov says, blunt. “But I’ve heard worse.”

Yuuri glances around, at the dubious but slowly nodding faces of the assembly, and he can feel the mood shifting to agreement. He lets out a long sigh, his stomach unclenching, and looks back at Phichit as the clamor in the pavilion rises again, less angry this time.

“Ship warfare, eh?” Phichit asks. “Not much for Dornish spearsmen to do there…but perhaps once we launch an attack on the gates.”

Yuuri stares at his old foster-brother for a moment. “You intend to fight, then?”

Phichit smiles at him. “Don’t you? Why else are we here?”

“I,” Yuuri says, and then stops. In truth, for all that the city’s trebuchets have been slinging great hunks of stone at them for days, the war has still been something of an abstraction. He doesn’t know what he expected — for King Aerys to send up the white flag, abdicating to his son, in the face of the assembled Houses of Westeros? — but he hasn’t really imagined all-out war on King’s Landing, or himself in the thick of it.

But this is what he’s been training for his whole life, whether or not he’s truly thought about it. Even when he and Takeshi and Yuuko were children, smashing their wooden swords in the yard, it was always with the defense of Winterfell in mind. He’s a skilled knight now, and there doesn’t seem to be any use in that if he doesn’t raise his sword in defense of his king and his love.

“Of course,” Yuuri says, speaking more strongly now. “We’re here to fight. To the death, if necessary.”

Now Phichit laughs, clapping Yuuri on the shoulder. “Let’s hope it isn’t.”

*****

That night Yuuri lies in bed, watching Victor undress by candlelight. He’s still struck by the sight of Victor like this, intimate and close. The breadth of his pale shoulders and the fall of unbound silver hair, the movement of his muscles and the flash of his eyes as he turns his head, pulling on a night shirt. When Victor comes to lie on the pallet, Yuuri puts his arms about him, stroking back his hair.

Victor smiles. “What is it?”

Yuuri shakes his head, just looking at him. “You spoke well tonight. Your tone of voice as much as what you said. They listened to you.”

“At last,” Victor says, ruefully.

“They were always going to,” Yuuri says. “They just needed to kick their heels out first, like a horse testing the bit. They needed to know you could handle them, keep them in line.”

“I thought I said the opposite of that,” Victor says, looking amused now. “That I wasn’t there to command them, not yet.”

“Whose suggestion did they take?” Yuuri asks. “They were all waiting for you to lead. Once you spoke up, they followed.” 

Victor sighs. “I suppose you’re right. Autocracy must be an inherited trait.”

“Victor,” Yuuri says, seriously, and lays a hand on his cheek. “You are nothing like your father.”

“Now,” Victor mutters, closing his eyes, and Yuuri knows it’s been weighing on him, Otabek Baratheon’s words by the shore of the God’s Eye. _How do I know we aren’t just exchanging one unfit ruler for another, in the long run?_ The Targaryens have tended to madness more than not, from Maegor the Cruel to Aerys himself, and they’ve intermarried amongst themselves often enough that the strain of paranoid psychosis keeps rearing up again, never fully extinguished.

“So many things conspired to make your father as he is,” Yuuri says softly. “His blood, yes, but his temperament too. His captivity at the hands of the rebels he mistreated. You’ll make different choices.”

Victor smiles, tightly, and lays his hand over Yuuri’s. “One thing is different, I know. There was never any true love between him and my mother.” He opens his eyes now, and Yuuri’s struck as always by their clear, piercing beauty. “You’re the first link in all this, Yuuri. If I hadn’t fallen in love with you at Highgarden last year…I’m ashamed to think of how long I would have let things continue this way. Playing my harp and swinging my sword while my father brought ruin to the kingdom.”

Yuuri can hardly speak for a moment, his throat tight and his heart full. Finally he whispers, “You’re here now. We both are.”

“And the only way is forward,” Victor says, emotion in his voice. He looks at Yuuri for a moment longer, then leans away, blowing the candle out.

In the morning they begin their preparations. Yuuri sees soldiers checking their weapons, polishing swords and fletching arrows, testing armor, all the nervous energy of the day before combat. On the morrow they march on the city.

The arguments haven’t stopped, Yuuri finds, as he walks his rounds through the camps. It’s rumored that Tully and Arryn are still quarreling with each other over something, and there are any number of squabbles between soldiers. He sees two Dornishwomen dueling, before they're stopped by an exasperated captain, and there’s an attempted horse theft and desertion from the Baratheon camp later in the day, swiftly punished with execution. 

Otabek wields the sword himself, Yuuri hears from a Tyrell servant, who seems shocked. Yuuri doesn’t understand that; his mother always taught him that a lord or lady must be prepared to deal out justice in any form it took. It’s one of the reasons he’s always been glad not to be the heir. He’s seen his share of executions, back home.

The barrage of stone and projectiles has ceased from the city, and it’s clear the king’s scouts have reported their movements. The defense of King’s Landing is surely shifting to guard the southern wall, as the Baratheon fleet sails up the river into the Blackwater. Yuuri’s learning that surprise attacks are a rare thing in warfare. Tomorrow will pit the fleet’s strength against that of the city walls, and, if they fall, the desperation of the soldiers within against the resolve of the soldiers without.

Yuuri waits in bed for Victor again that night, his heart beating slow with dread as he thinks of the coming battle. Victor seems to be taking his time, scrubbing his face and arranging his things on the wash stand, as if they won’t be breaking camp for good tomorrow. As if he won’t be taking up his place on the Iron Throne, if all goes well.

Victor keeps pushing his hair back out of his face, turning to look in the beaten copper mirror hanging over the wash bowl, and finally Yuuri speaks.

“What are you doing?”

Victor gives a start, and then turns, still holding his hair out of his face. “It’s — all this. I’m worried it’ll get in the way tomorrow.”

“You’ve fought in dozens of tourneys with your hair braided back,” Yuuri says, sensibly, he thinks. After a beat, he realizes what Victor’s saying. “Victor — you aren’t planning to fight tomorrow, are you?”

Victor sighs, looking back at himself in the mirror. “I haven’t decided yet,” he says to his reflection. He lets his silver hair fall down again, shaking it loose over his face. “I don’t know what they expect of me.”

“It’s not about what they expect,” Yuuri says, immediately, and then he has to take a moment, gathering his breath. The idea of Victor in the fray is terrible, and it makes him think of that day in the woods near Harrenhal, the six bandits who nearly killed him. Victor is so beautiful with a sword in his hand, and yet so vulnerable, like any common knight.

“I don’t know what my father expects, either,” Victor says, softly. He’s still looking at himself in the mirror, hair hanging in his eyes. “If I fought alongside the soldiers, if I took the secret tunnels into the Red Keep, if I came face to face with him — what then? Would I kill him? Would he laugh at me if I tried?”

A shudder goes through Yuuri, thinking of it. The mad king’s son, trying to do what’s right for the kingdom, and the love that’s soured between them. Victor taken prisoner — or living the rest of his life knowing he killed his own father for his throne.

“Come to bed,” Yuuri says, hoarsely. “Decide on the morrow, if it becomes necessary. Perhaps they’ll surrender before we have to invade the city.”

Victor laughs, bitterly, and then comes to bed.

Yuuri doesn’t think either of them really sleep that night. It’s a long dark tangle of bad dreams and Victor’s harsh breathing next to him, arms tight around his chest. Finally, well before dawn, he pushes a hand beneath Victor’s loose trousers, reaching down to caress him. Victor moans, still half-asleep, but pulls him closer. Yuuri brings Victor off quickly, kissing his neck and relishing his soft sighs, then rubs against his hip until he finds his own release. They both sleep then, a brief repose before the morning light breaks in on them.

He hates to wake Victor, and so he steals out of bed alone and washes up, shivering in the cool air. His plate armor is with Kenjirou in the squires’ tents, and Yuuri simply dons his padded wool undergarments for now. After a moment, though, he goes to the trunk that’s traveled from Winterfell to Harrenhal and almost all the way back home before coming south again. His katana and kikko armor are inside, and he reaches for them, biting his lip. He hasn’t been tested this way in real battle, the quick skillful katana blade against the heavier broadsword, but today seems like the day to try.

Kenjirou’s full of excitement when Yuuri finally tracks him down, throwing small spears with some of the young people from the marshes. “A battle at last!” he exclaims, and nods approvingly over Yuuri’s northern gear, as he begins to buckle it on. A sharp pain flares in Yuuri’s chest, listening to him talk; Kenjirou is so young, and he can’t be Yuuri’s responsibility anymore, even in the danger that lies ahead.

He’s struck by a sudden thought, and he turns around. “Kenjirou,” he says, seriously. “Do you intend to fight today?”

“Of course,” Kenjirou says, eyes wide.

“Then you should be knighted first,” Yuuri says. He reaches for his katana, and nods at the frozen Kenjirou. “Kneel.”

“Of course!” Kenjirou says again, and scrambles down before him, bowing his head. Yuuri can still almost see his face-splitting grin.

“I dub thee Ser Kenjirou Reed of the north,” Yuuri says, solemn, tapping each of Kenjirou’s shoulders in turn. “Arise. Er, sorry you can't do a proper vigil first, but I’m sure there’ll be time later — ”

Kenjirou leaps to his feet, flinging his arms around Yuuri. “Thank you! I’ll never forget this day, not as long as I live!”

He bends hastily to his work again, fitting the armor over Yuuri’s shoulders, and Yuuri can’t help the bitter, echoing thought, _however long that might be_.

Yuuri turns his head then, in time to see a figure emerge from his own tent. It’s familiar to his eyes, but there’s something wrong with the profile, and it’s only when Victor looks right at him that Yuuri realizes what he’s seeing.

Victor’s hair has been shorn, roughly, as if with a knife. Silky strands fall across his forehead, almost covering one eye, but the nape of his neck is bare, giving a stunning vista of pale skin above the collar of his shirt. He looks powerful and vulnerable at once, standing there watching Yuuri in the morning light.

Behind Yuuri, Kenjirou steps away. “Your Highness,” he says, and Yuuri hears the scrape in the dirt as he bows. He hasn’t done that in months, not since Victor first came to Winterfell, but Yuuri understands the impulse. Victor looks older, different, and yet somehow more himself than he ever has.

Yuuri moves forward, still only half-clad in armor, hand outstretched. He lifts the fall of hair over Victor’s face with his fingertips, brushing it away from Victor’s eyes. Victor lets him, still watching. 

“You’re joining the battle, then?” Yuuri murmurs.

“As are you, I see,” Victor says, nodding at him. 

Yuuri smiles. “The only way is forward.”

*****

The army marches north and east, towards the Blackwater Rush, the arm of the bay upon which King’s Landing is situated. The Baratheon fleet has entered the port, the orders sent by raven and scout, and already the city’s defenses have engaged the ships; ordnance rains down from the small towers at the port’s mouth, and the royal fleet rows to meet them.

Yuuri rides in the vanguard, with the other knights and the noble parties. To his surprise, he sees Maestra Minako amongst them, mounted on her grey mare and clad in the kikko armor he remembers so well from his earliest training days. She’s put aside her chain of office, each metal link representing a different discipline she’s mastered, for a plain black surcoat, like the maestra’s gown she’s always worn. She catches his eye and nods fiercely at him, the angle of her head set, and he sees a katana at her belt, as fine and ancient as his own.

They reach the shoreline just as the ships meet, the battle beginning in the harbor. A royal galley rams one of the Storm’s End ships, prow splintering against the hull, and Yuuri sees the boarding party prepare for the attack. In the distance, the seven towers of the Red Keep loom over everything, tall and ugly, overlooking the bay. That's their destination and their goal, and Yuuri fixes it in his mind, wondering what they will find inside, if they ever reach it. 

Yuuri turns, seeking out Victor in the crowd. He’s still bare-headed, but his cropped and shining hair looks like his old silver dragon helm now. Victor stares at the city the way that Yuuri did, and Yuuri tries to imagine his thoughts. For all Victor’s bitterness, there must be pleasant memories of this city too, growing up as crown prince in the castle on the hill. Yuuri only hopes there will be more good memories here, in the years to come.

One of the Baratheon ships breaks through the royal fleet’s barricade, aiming for the south-eastern wall of the city. Yuuri sees projectiles flung from its deck-mounted trebuchet, heavy iron balls that land and crash against the gate, and then his attention is taken by the shuffling around him, the rising mutter of voices. This is their moment to attack, the infantry set to march once a ship had managed to weaken the city wall with siege weapons, but no order has been given, the chain of command still uncertain. Finally:

“Forward!” Victor shouts, and the word is carried through the army, until they surge as one.

Yuuri’s spent his life training for single combat. The sword and armor in front of him, the mind of his enemy. Now he finds himself carried along in the wave of cavalry and soldiers, riding and running for the city walls. He turns his head about wildly, looking for Victor, only to see him still some distance behind. Yuuri pulls up on his reins, taking quick anxious breaths, until Victor draws even with him.

“Yuuri!” Victor says, catching his eye, and Yuuri spurs his horse back into action, following Victor through the tide.

The war galley keeps battering the gate, heedless of the projectiles being hurled down on it from above. Yuuri grits his teeth and keeps his seat, thanking the gods for the bravery of the fighters on board, holding fast to open the way for them. He sees Victor reach below to his gear bag, pulling out a plain steel helm that he fits over his head. It’s only half a disguise — anyone inside the city would know Victor’s pure white charger by sight — but at least it makes him less of a target for marksmen than his dragon helm would. Yuuri follows him onwards.

Now he sees the city gate open before them; the Mud Gate, meant to allow egress between the docks and the markets inside. City guards are pouring out, heavily armed and some on horseback, and Yuuri realizes they’ll have to fight their way through them before even reaching the gate itself. 

His katana isn’t made for this sort of combat. Yuuri reaches for his broadsword instead, unsheathing it from his saddle, holding it at the ready as their rebel army thunders across the narrow strip of land between them and the guards of King’s Landing. He wishes he could speak with Victor one last time before the clash comes, but it’s too late now. The moment is almost upon them, and they’ll have to trust to each other to make it through to the other side.

Clash is too small a word, when it happens at last. The impact echoes through Yuuri’s bones; the meeting of metal and wood, horse hoof and stone, the strength of their forces battering against another. Their army is greater in number but these soldiers are desperate, fighting with the walls of their own city at their backs. Yuuri sees it in their eyes, their fear and their devotion, protecting their homes and families against these invaders. 

He lifts his sword and brings it down, again and again; protecting Victor and fighting their way through. He loses track of anything but flashes, moments — Otabek Baratheon’s great warhammer whirling in front of him, the small marsh soldiers fighting on foot below, a fallen horse screaming. And then there's only his breath in his chest and his pulse in his ears, one hand gripping the reins of his horse so tightly he can’t feel his fingers. Enemy swords strike against the buckler strapped to his arm, but he’s always swifter, moving away, moving on. His task here isn’t to defeat enemies but to follow Victor, keeping him safe as they move through the battlefield to whatever Victor has planned.

At last they find themselves in the clear, close to the wall and away from the fight. Projectiles still rain down from above them, but to Yuuri’s surprise Victor turns and rides northeast, keeping close to the stone wall. Yuuri follows him, looking back constantly for pursuers, but the battle rages on behind them. He thinks he sees Phichit leap from his horse into the fray, but it could have been any Dornishman at all, armor brightly lacquered, spear held high.

They ride along the city wall on the creaking, splintered docks, coming closer to the watch of those menacing red towers. He glances out into the bay, where the war galleys are all engaged in combat now. A Baratheon ship is sinking, hull broken, but he sees fighting on a royal ship closer to shore, a captain guarding the helm as Baratheon soldiers advance on him. All around them are the noises of war; swords and cries, the crash as another projectile is fired against the city gate. 

Yuuri never thought to see King’s Landing, and never like this. He can’t help wondering how the kingdom will ever heal, even if their cause prevails; the ugliness of civil war and countryman fighting against countryman.

He draws a little closer to Victor, calling out to him. “Victor! Where are we going?”

Victor shakes his head. “I don’t know. I saw it only once, as a boy…I’ll know it when I see it again.”

They ride on a few minutes later, slowing down as Victor searches, and finally Yuuri hears him cry out “Ah!”, pulling his mount to a halt. Yuuri draws alongside him, looking at where he’s pointing — a featureless gate set low into the wall, clearly meant for drainage.

“See?” Victor asks. He’s pulling at a cord around his neck as he speaks, dragging a small sachet from beneath his shirt and armor. He puts his finger inside, loosening the drawstring, and then comes up with a small, rusted iron key. “A secret passage, known only to the royal family, for escape in times of emergency. It leads directly inside Maegor’s Holdfast.”

“Do you really think it’s gone unmarked all these years?” Yuuri asks, as Victor dismounts and approaches the wall, pushing up the guard on his helmet. “Surely someone else knows about it besides your family. The other end must be guarded.”

“Never, to my knowledge,” Victor says, and kneels down, reaching for a padlock on the gate. He inserts the key, but it won’t turn. “Damn!”

Any other time, Yuuri might have teased Victor about the frustrated expression he makes, but instead he reaches slowly into one of his own bags, finding saddle oil. He dismounts, then advances to hand it to Victor. “Well, try this.”

Victor oils both the key and the lock and tries again. It takes an effort, but this time the lock pops open, and he’s able to swing open the low arched gate. 

“It’s small,” Yuuri says dubiously, ducking down to peer inside. “We’ll have to crouch as we walk.”

Victor nods. “It’s not meant to encourage invaders. Maegor the First built it as the only way out, in times of trouble.”

“And now it looks like it’s the only way in,” Yuuri says. 

He looks back over his shoulder for a moment. The turmoil of the harbor, the big ships in combat, and the battle beyond, over the narrow strip of land before the Mud Gate. The city guard is giving way to the attackers now, falling back, and it won’t be long until they’re thoroughly routed. He and Victor could go in that way instead, at the head of their own army, but there will be more fighting in the streets, to say nothing of getting past the walls of the Red Keep itself. 

Yuuri takes a deep breath, drawing in the briny sea air Victor’s spoken of so many times before. He left his broadsword back in its sheath on his saddle, but at his side is his katana. Yuuri puts a hand on the hilt, then takes it out. “Let me go first,” he says.

*****

The sewer tunnels beneath King’s Landing seem to go on forever. The stench is strong, and they've long since tied handkerchiefs over their faces, to little avail. Yuuri thinks to himself that when this is all through, he's going to ride straight home to Winterfell and soak in the hot springs for about a week, until the smell is out of his nose.

“Left,” Victor says, from behind him.

They've been splashing through the tunnels for nearly an hour, making their way closer to the keep. Or so Yuuri assumes; Victor seems to have the turns memorized in his head. Yuuri tried to ask him about it, but Victor only raised a hand, frowning. “My father made me commit the turns to memory as a child, but that was coming from the castle. Doing it backwards is hard enough without you distracting me.”

Victor sounds certain every time he gives a direction, though, and Yuuri just hopes he has it right. Lost in the sewers of King’s Landing is not where he wants to end his days.

The ground has been slanting uphill for a while now, though, and Yuuri feels a little more hopeful. They have yet to encounter anyone underground, and he's just relaxed his guard a little when he turns right, according to Victor’s direction, and comes upon a set of footholds carved in the stone, with a slatted trapdoor above.

Voices ring out above them, shouting and afraid, and Yuuri hears the crash of wood and metal, like things being lifted and piled together. He glances over at Victor, who puts a finger to his own lips.

“The treasury,” Victor says, almost inaudibly. 

“Do you think your father is preparing to leave?” Yuuri whispers, heart lurching as he thinks of armed soldiers pouring into the sewers, perhaps the Kingsguard itself.

Victor just shakes his head. “It seems his last retainers aren't very loyal.”

There's a shout from the far side of the room above them. “Grab that cask of rubies and let’s be gone, Alexei!” a woman snaps, and Yuuri hears footsteps hurrying across the stone floor. Then only silence, as they wait.

Victor nods at last, motioning towards the ladder.

Yuuri sheathes his sword and begins to climb. The handholds are slippery and worn with age, but there are only a few of them, and then he’s up against the trapdoor. He braces one hand against the wood and tries to lift it, cautiously, but it won’t budge. 

“Sorry, sorry,” Victor says quietly, moving against his hip. “It’ll be locked too.” Yuuri leans to the side and lets Victor reach up past him, searching along the edge of the trapdoor until he finds the dangling padlock. The key fits this one a little better, like it’s been tested from time to time, and the lock wrenches open.

The trapdoor swings downwards, revealing a low crawlspace beneath the boards of the room above them, too shallow to do more than crouch in. Yuuri can see flickering torchlight between the floorboards, but no obvious entrance. He climbs in, though, moving out of the way for Victor, and Victor seems to know exactly where to go. He shimmies along the ground, plate armor scraping, and then turns to press at the boards above his head, until a hidden panel swings up, letting in more light.

“Let me,” Yuuri hisses, when Victor seems about to poke his head out. He squeezes past Victor and straightens up, surveying the room.

The great treasury of the Red Keep is housed in Maegor’s Holdfast, the oldest tower of the seven, built by the first Targaryen king of Westeros. The kings and queens of Westeros have always been housed here too, alongside the splendor of their conquered wealth. Piles of coins and riches lie everywhere, almost comical in their excess. Glinting gold and shining jewels, armor and hammered drinking cups, even a large silver dragon, finely wrought and studded with emeralds and rubies, guarding the entrance to yet another room crowded with treasures. 

It’s more than Yuuri can take in at a glance, or a hundred glances, and for a minute he just stares around the cavernous room, gazing at all this unimaginable wealth.

“Yuuri?” Victor asks, below him.

Yuuri blinks, shaking himself. The room is full of treasure, but empty of people, and it’s time they got moving before that changes.

“All clear,” he says, and puts his hands on the floor of the room, hoisting himself up.

He turns and helps Victor after, and then Victor carefully presses the hidden panel back into place. The join is so perfectly made, Yuuri would never have seen it himself, but Victor drags a small wooden table over the place, just in case. “No sense in alerting anyone to our presence,” he says.

“Mm,” Yuuri says, lost in staring at the piles of riches again. In the torchlight, they seem to multiply before his eyes.

“It’s a shame, isn’t it,” Victor says, behind him. “All these beautiful things, shut away in here. I’d love to see some of them restored to their rightful places, like those ceramics from the north,” he says, gesturing to a cabinet full of delicate, painted blue and white plates.

Yuuri blinks. “I haven’t seen anything like that outside of a few pieces of my mother’s,” he says. “The art’s been lost.”

Victor steps forward, putting a hand on Yuuri’s shoulder. “A lot’s been lost, these last few centuries since my people arrived with their dragons. I want to change that.”

Yuuri turns to look at him. “Starting with dishes?”

Now Victor smiles. “Do you know how much time I spent in here, staring at those blue and white plates, in the months after we first met? Imagining you eating off something so fine and lovely.”

Yuuri snorts. “Hardly. I broke enough crockery as a child I had to wash my own dishes, and finally they just gave me a metal plate. Like the dog’s, my mother said.”

The old stab of pain goes through him, thinking of Vicchan, but there’s a noise out in the corridor and Victor’s grip tightens on his shoulder. They look at each other, eyes widening in alarm, and then Yuuri’s hand goes to his sword. 

“We’d better get going,” he says, stepping forward.

The corridor is clear, once he steps out, but Yuuri’s still cautious, checking in both directions before he motions for Victor. “Which way now?” he asks.

Victor nods to the left. “Let’s search the ground floor first.”

They walk through the fine chambers of Maegor’s Holdfast, built three centuries ago for the first Targaryen kings. They're vast and ugly and empty, nothing but heavy furniture and faded hangings, and it's strange to think of Victor growing up here, in this fine and shrouded silence. Victor leads them up a spiral staircase next, but it's still and empty on this level too. Yuuri takes the lead on the next set, and they walk cautiously through the long, twisting corridors that take them to the royal bedchambers, overlooking the Blackwater Rush.

But this enormous set of rooms is deserted, too. It’s dusty and dark here, the windows covered with thick tapestries, and full of strange scrolls and treasures, as well as a terrible smell. Yuuri takes a step back at the last door, covering his mouth and nose with his hand, wishing he still had the handkerchief tied there. “Did somebody…die in here?”

“My father,” Victor says, seriously. He frowns as he looks around. “At least, the father I used to know. I don't see the chest with the dragon eggs anywhere — he must have left these apartments for the duration of the siege.”

“Where to now?” Yuuri asks, his voice muffled by his hand.

Victor considers for a moment. “The court has likely taken refuge in the sept. We’re up on a hill here, and getting down to the lower courtyards won’t be safe. Let’s go to the entrance and I’ll show you.”

He follows Yuuri back down the stairs, and this time guides him to the front hall. The enormous oaken doors, barred with iron, are slightly ajar, and when Yuuri looks through he sees a bridge stretching across a dry moat, with stone buildings beyond and a steep, winding staircase cut into the hillside.

“See,” Victor says, behind him. “We’d have to descend the Serpentine Stairs, in full view of the city guards’ barracks. I don’t know how many of them are left in the keep, but we’d be easy targets. That’s the point of the Stair.”

“What’s your plan instead?” Yuuri asks.

Victor leans over his shoulder and points in the opposite direction. “The Tower of the White Sword will be empty, since the Kingsguard is with my father now, wherever he is. From there we can get onto the perimeter wall, and circle around to the front of the keep. We just need a couple of guard cloaks to be inconspicuous, and we’ll look like city watchmen. There’s always some in the guard chamber here.” He withdraws, and Yuuri hears him crossing the hall, going into the little room beside the entrance.

Yuuri keeps watching the courtyard, through the open door. He looks up to the top of the perimeter wall, and sees cloaked figures moving, long spears over the shoulders.

“See?” Victor asks, behind him.

Yuuri turns to find Victor holding out a pair of cloaks similar to the ones on the people outside. He reaches for one, and then hesitates, taking a breath.

“What’s the rest of your plan, Victor?” he asks at last. “You didn’t tell me about any of this beforehand, or our allies. They’ve mounted this rebellion to support you, and for all they know right now you’ve already fallen in battle.”

“I couldn’t reveal the existence of the secret passage,” Victor protests, frowning as though Yuuri’s being ridiculous.

“Not to the soldiers, but to the lords and ladies?” Yuuri says. “They needed to know. But beyond breaking their trust….what do you intend to do once you find your father?”

Now Victor’s the one who hesitates, holding his breath. Finally he says, “I don’t know yet. But I don’t think this war can end unless we meet face to face.”

Yuuri looks at him for a long moment. He knows that Victor didn’t want this, either the war or the crown. Victor’s only taken what steps he’s had to, but Yuuri’s beginning to see the spark of real leadership in him now, taking command and making choices for his own considered reasons. In the months they’ve spent together, Victor has become a real person instead of a far-off idol, but this side of him remains, the crown prince with experiences and concerns beyond what Yuuri knows.

“All right,” Yuuri says, and takes the cloak. “I’ll go first.”

It’s nervewracking, stepping onto the bridge over the moat, out in the open air. Worse, they have to move as though they belong here, not like they’re skulking through the compound. Yuuri tries to keep his head held high, hidden within his own plain helm, and Victor of course looks at home anywhere he goes. 

They turn right, away from the twisting stone stairs that descend the hill, and go towards the Tower of the White Sword. Yuuri reaches out for the door, hoping it won’t be barred from the inside, and is relieved to feel it give away, pulling open easily. This building, too, is deserted inside. They take a small spiral staircase to the top, and then step out into the sunshine once more, this time onto the perimeter wall surrounding the keep.

In the bay below, the ship battle rages on. Two warships are on fire and sinking, their allegiances impossible to distinguish in the wreckage as the soldiers on board leap into the water. Yuuri looks over the parapet as they walk southwest, following the fighting still happening in front of the Mud Gate. He thinks their forces have perhaps gained the upper hand, cavalry moving amongst the city guard, but it’s hard to tell from this distance.

Yuuri looks over to see Victor frowning. “Does it look like it’s going well?” he asks.

Victor just shakes his head. “It’s war. Once the gate is open, I hate to think of what will happen to the townsfolk inside. I know the soldiers were told not to loot, but things happen when the battle fever is on.”

“Then we’d better hurry,” Yuuri says. “And perhaps end it before it begins.”

They move swiftly, with a purpose, and Yuuri thinks they probably do look like any city guardsmen patrolling the wall. They pass through the rookery tower, almost empty now of messenger ravens, and just before they enter the kitchen keep at the corner, turning northwest, Yuuri catches sight of something in the near distance, a great host approaching the city.

“Look!” he says, catching hold of Victor’s arm and pointing. “Do you think that’s the Lannister forces?”

Victor doesn’t stop walking. “Likely,” he says. “I know they were close by, from the scouting reports yesterday.”

“Who do you think they’ll declare for?”

“Themselves, at this point,” Victor says. “Whoever seems more likely to win the day. Let’s make certain that’s us, yes?”

They reach the final tower, close to the Red Keep’s gates, and pass through yet another set of deserted corridors and rooms, descending to the ground floor. When they reach the small entry hall of the guard tower, though, Yuuri takes Victor by the arm again, turning to face him.

“I want you to stay here,” he says, marshaling all the strength he can in his voice. “Just until I can scout around the buildings here, and report back,” he adds, as Victor opens his mouth. “You’re the presumptive king, and the leader of the rebellion. Whatever you have in mind for confronting your father, it’s all for naught if you’re taken prisoner or killed first.”

Victor smiles, surprising him, and shakes his head fondly. 

“What?” Yuuri asks, defensive.

“You,” Victor says, his voice thick. “First you wanted to be captain of my Kingsguard, and now here you are, risking your life for me.”

Yuuri moves forward suddenly, embracing Victor as best as he can in their armor. Victor’s arms come up around him, holding him tight, and he hears Victor take in and exhale a shaky breath. “I’d do anything for you,” Yuuri says, his own voice wavering now. “But you know that.”

He draws back to see Victor’s eyes wide and startled, and then Victor’s expression turns serious. “I didn’t,” he says, quietly, and reaches up to touch Yuuri’s face with the tips of his gloved fingers. “But thank you.” He clears his throat. “And stay safe. Come back soon.”

Yuuri nods. “I will.”

*****

It’s louder down in the forecourt of the Red Keep. Yuuri’s closer to the fighting now, in the bay and out on the docks, and he can hear the sounds of the city too, as the inhabitants take refuge from the war outside. He crosses the yard quickly, going towards the most likely place for the refuge of the king — the Great Hall, where for three centuries the Targaryens have sat the Iron Throne. 

He expects it to be guarded, but it’s strangely empty. The massive entrance doors hang slightly ajar, like the doors leading out of Maegor’s Holdfast were, and Yuuri cautiously pulls one open wider, sword at the ready the whole time. There’s no one in the echoing antechamber, though, and after a quick look around, he proceeds through the open doors to the main hall. 

The throne room is at the far end, so distant he can scarcely see the shining bulk of the throne, bristling with forged-together swords. There’s someone seated on it, he thinks, and perhaps another figure lying on the ground, but he has to squint in the dimness. He’ll have to get closer for a better look.

Yuuri enters the Great Hall, katana drawn and held out in front of him, and begins to advance down the long path to the throne. Above him on the walls hang monsters — the white and polished skulls of dragons long-dead, each more enormous than the last. Their mouths are full of long, sharp teeth, and their hollow eye sockets seem to watch Yuuri from beneath cruel curving horns. He can’t help glancing to the side every so often, certain one of them moved.

The throne comes clearer in the dim light of the hall. Filtered sunlight pours down in bright colors from high stained glass windows above, and as his feet ring out on the fine tile work below, Yuuri finally realizes who’s sitting on it.

Yuri Targaryen watches him approach, sprawled across the throne of his forebears. He’s still wearing the fine armor Victor gave him, with the white cloak of the Kingsguard clasped about his throat, and he’s bare-headed, shining golden hair spilling across one eye. His posture is lounging but watchful, his blood-stained sword resting across his spread knees.

At his feet lies the body of his king.

Yuuri stops, his gaze drawn to the floor. Aerys is lying on the steps to the throne, head twisted awkwardly to the side and arms flung out, as though he were trying to ascend when he was cut down. His throat has obviously been slashed, and there’s a dreadful contrast between the pallor of his drained, staring face and the dark crimson pooling beneath him, still dripping down the stairs. It looks as though he died recently, perhaps in the last hour while Yuuri and Victor were inching through the Holdfast and along the keep’s walls, and Yuuri has a moment of aching regret, realizing Victor will never be able to make things right with his father, the way he’d hoped.

And now Victor is king.

He looks up at last, to find Yuri still staring at him. There’s something fierce and desperate in Yuri’s gaze, as though he’s waiting for the slightest provocation to fly into a rage, or burst into tears. Yuuri looks at those furious, vulnerable green eyes, and chooses his words carefully. 

“Yuri,” he says, softly. “What happened?”

Now Yuri blinks, shaking his head slightly. “The city,” he says, in his low, rough young voice. “He was going to burn it all down.”

“The wildfire,” Yuuri says, realizing.

Yuri licks his lips, his gaze suddenly shifting into the distance beyond. “He sent Rossart, his pyromancer. I killed him first. And then — ” He looks down at Yuuri again, and his eyes are wide, pleading somehow. “There are other pyromancers who could have set off the caches. I didn’t want him to give another order.”

They both look at Aerys, his body twisted inside the rich red robes he wears, his long hair and beard filthy and tangled. He looks like any commoner now, no longer a king; just a sad and pitiable old man who for a time wielded unimaginable power over so many.

“It’s all right,” Yuuri says, trying to put conviction in his voice. “I’ll — go get Victor.”

Yuri takes in a deep breath and lets it out, shakily. “He’s here?”

“Yes, hidden and safe, for now,” Yuuri says. “Does anyone else know about…this?”

Yuri shakes his head. “The Kingsguard went out to fight, and most of the city watch. I think the rest of the court is sheltered in the sept, praying, but he — Aerys — wouldn’t leave the throne room. So I couldn’t either.” He blinks rapidly, licking his lips. “Since we returned from Harrenhal it’s been — bad. He hasn’t stopped talking about wildfire, and burning. I knew what was in his mind, but I didn’t know when it was coming, or how to stop it.” He laughs, bitter and short. “I guess I did know how, in the end.”

“Yuri,” Yuuri says, calmly as he can. “We need to protect Victor now. The throne is his, but he’ll need more strength behind him than just me to take it. People will have to know the king is dead, and why, so we need to protect you, too. Do you think you’ll be safe here, while I go bring him back?”

Yuri laughs again, even more bitterly than before; a dark, worrisome sound. “I’m sitting on the Iron Throne of Westeros. What safer place is there — or more dangerous?”

“All right,” Yuuri says. He’s not certain it really is, but there isn’t much else he can do right now, with an army battering the city walls, and Victor hidden but still vulnerable up in the watch tower. He gives the contorted body of the king one more glance, then turns around and walks out again, beneath the menacing watch of the dragon skulls above.

The sounds of battle seem louder outside now, closer. He wonders if the army has breached the Mud Gate, and if the looting and pillaging Victor feared is already underway. It will be difficult to declare themselves, in the face of soldiers taken by war madness, and he’s concerned, too, about finding the other nobles at the head of the rebellion. Setting Victor up as king won’t be as simple as just sitting on the throne.

Yuuri takes a few steps out into the forecourt of the Red Keep, and realizes why the battle seemed so close.

Victor is locked in desperate, ferocious combat with an unfamiliar knight, shorter but powerfully built, cloaked in white. Victor isn’t wearing his helm, and his cropped hair keeps falling into his eyes, clumped and sweat-soaked now. He turns, parrying off a fresh attack, and Yuuri’s heart gives a sick lurch when he sees that Victor’s bleeding freely, red dripping from a cut beneath his arm where his under tunic has been slashed through.

As he watches, Victor ducks his head to the side just in time to avoid a blow to his unprotected head. The Kingsguard knight’s sword catches him across the forehead, though, leaving an ugly gash. Victor shakes his hair back from his face yet again and charges forward, his sword moving in beautiful arcs, the textbook strokes blended with his own graceful skill. 

Yuuri shakes himself, realizing he’s just standing there, and charges in, coming up behind the other knight. He raises his sword and brings it down in a crashing strike against the man’s shoulder, forgetting for the moment that he’s wielding a katana and not his heavier broadsword. It’s enough to make the knight curse aloud, though, letting up his attack on Victor, and when Yuuri hears his voice he knows who it is.

“By the seven gods, I’ll kill you both,” Ser Blount swears, turning around, sword upraised.

“The gods do not favor you today,” Yuuri snarls, and steps forward to join the fight.

Blount laughs, the way he did back on the fields at Harrenhal, ugly and cruel. “Ah, yes, the boy who knows all about favors from the powerful. I see you’re still playing with your primitive northern sword.” 

“You’ve seen what I can do with it,” Yuuri says, and begins to duel with him in earnest. Not in southern fashion, trying to slash and crush each other with their weapons, but in the northern way, aiming to pierce the man’s armor with the sharp point of his sword, or find some chink in Blount’s armor, the way Blount did to Victor. They circle each other, like they did weeks ago, but Yuuri isn’t fighting for honor alone now.

“Yuuri!” Victor says from behind him, and that’s just the same as it was, too. Except this isn’t a torchlit, unbalanced fight, Yuuri wielding a blunted tourney broadsword against three older and more experienced knights. It’s broad daylight, the final morning of the war, the air full of smoke and far-off cries, and Yuuri has earned his tourney laurels and so much more. He’s holding a katana, the weapon of his people, and he sees the lethal rage in the man’s eyes, through the slits in his helmet guard, telling him that this is a fight to the death.

And Yuuri’s fighting for love, now, too.

Ser Blount doesn’t seem to know how to guard against Yuuri’s attacks. _Weren’t you watching?_ Yuuri wants to ask, _Didn’t you see my victory?_ But that final tourney duel feels far away, frivolous child’s play compared to today, for all that he and Victor fought with real blades then. Yuuri’s tired again, from the sleepless night and his tense morning’s travels, but he still moves lightly, wheeling and turning, jabbing and slashing at Blount. The katana is sharp enough to slice through the metal, if he applies enough force, and he makes half a dozen cuts at the sides of Blount’s breastplate, openings for later. 

Blount’s breathing heavily, clearly tiring himself. Too tired for more taunts, it seems, except that when Yuuri slides away from a clumsy overhand attack, he finally speaks again.

“Thought I’d have to fight the both of you,” Blount pants, and then laughs cruelly again. “Lucky me.”

Yuuri whips his head around, looking over his shoulder to see Victor lying crumpled on the courtyard stones, a spreading pool of crimson beneath him. There’s a horrifying flash to Victor’s father, bleeding out in the throne room yonder, and then Blount lands a crashing strike against Yuuri’s bad left shoulder, the one that’s never really healed. 

Fear and pain electrify him into action, along with a raging red fury. “If you’ve killed your prince — your king — ” Yuuri growls, charging forward, sword upraised. 

“He attacked me first,” Blount says, with a wheezing laugh. He holds up his forearm, half-shattered buckler dangling from it, and cries out in pain as he catches Yuuri’s next blow on it. “ _Your_ prince to the last, boy.”

Yuuri lets out an anguished cry, and slips into a series of attacks so ingrained he hardly thinks about them. Whirling, moving, grasping, turning. It’s the same move he defeated Victor with back at Harrenhal — hauling Blount’s arm forward with a jerk, knocking his sword away — but this time Yuuri finishes it with the fatal blow, turning once more to thrust the point of his slender katana right between Blount’s helm and gorget, into his unprotected throat.

The sound is awful, as Blount gurgles and chokes, falling to his knees. For a moment Yuuri’s dislocated in time, stunned to find himself here, holding a bloody sword as he stands on the flags of the Red Keep’s courtyard, watching a man die by his hand in war time. For all his years of tourney training, and the childhood of sword instruction before that, he never truly expected to take part in any real combat. 

But he’s learned that wars are fought for reasons, good or bad, and as he comes back to himself Yuuri takes in a gasping breath, remembering. He leaves Blount to his end and spins around, dashing across the courtyard to Victor’s side.

The wound is under his arm, and not across his throat. Blount’s sword cut deep, though, and as Yuuri drops to his knees with a crash he sees that blood is still seeping out between Victor’s fingers, pressed tight there. Yuuri takes off his helm, tossing it away, and Victor looks up, meeting Yuuri’s eyes with his own apologetic blue ones.

“I didn’t stay put,” he says, weakly. 

“ _Why,_ ” Yuuri asks, half moaning, and then shakes his head. “Never mind. You need bandages — herbs — a healer! But I can’t move you….and I can’t leave you…”

He looks around the empty courtyard wildly, as if any of the above might suddenly appear. Victor reaches up and takes hold of his hand, and Yuuri’s appalled to feel how cold his fingers are already. 

“You’ll have to go find help,” Victor says, his voice scarcely above a whisper. “But you’ll never leave me, not really.” He squeezes Yuuri’s hand, his grip still reassuringly strong. “Even if — ”

“No!” Yuuri says, and he hears the desperation in his own voice. He looks back at Victor’s pale face, and it feels like his heart will choke him, so heavy in his throat. Victor’s smiling up at him, and that strange dislocation is upon him again, like he can’t believe this moment is real. After so long, to have found each other, only for it to end like this.

“Yuuri — ”

“I love you,” Yuuri says, breathless. “I didn’t say it before because I thought you knew. Perhaps you did. But I want to say it now and a thousand times, every morning and night. I want a life together. I want to give you everything, and I want everything from you. Victor…”

“Yuuri,” Victor says again, but he’s still smiling and he says it differently this time, glancing behind Yuuri.

“What,” Yuuri says, his voice thick with the tears that are starting to fall down his cheeks.

“Look,” Victor says, softly.

Yuuri turns his head, and sees that the gates to the Red Keep have opened. Riding through it from the city outside are three figures — two unfamiliar ones, clad in armor and carrying swords, and a woman on a grey horse, wearing a black surcoat. 

For a moment, Yuuri can’t speak. Maestra Minako sees them, and spurs her horse forward.

“Yuuri!” she shouts, crossing the courtyard. She pulls up short, beginning to dismount. “Gods, what it took us to get through here — and we didn’t even know if you were still alive. Prince Phichit saw the two of you ride off, and Lord Chenglei thought — never mind what he thought, the Daynes got me here. The gates are open — the guards seem to have fled — it’s chaos everywhere, no one in command — ”

“Aerys is dead,” Yuuri says, bluntly, as the maestra approaches them. He hears Victor let out a shocked gasp, choked off by a cough, and turns back to look at him. “I’m sorry,” Yuuri says, softer, and squeezes Victor’s hand. “I’ll tell you all about it later. For now…” 

He raises a hand, dashing the tears from his face with his knuckles. Maestra Minako has taken off her helm, and come to kneel beside Yuuri, as the other two figures approach. Their helm guards are up and he can see it’s the knights he overheard at the tourney, Ser Michele Dayne and his sister Sara. 

“This is a deep wound,” Maestra Minako says, her hands moving over Victor, gently. Yuuri moves out of her way as best as he can, but doesn’t let go of Victor’s hand. Victor winces, gripping Yuuri tighter, as the maestra probes his wound with one finger sliding under his own hand. She looks up at him.

“Are there supplies nearby? I’ll send the other two for help, but in the meantime I must do what I can to staunch the blood.”

“The granaries and supply buildings are down those stairs, behind me,” Victor says tightly, wheezing. “There must be things in there.”

“Right,” she says, and nods, getting up. She turns to Yuuri. “Don’t let him try to move, or even speak. I’ll be back as soon as I can.” She turns to Sara Dayne, her face stern. “Ride for a healer. Your king’s life is at stake.”

Maestra Minako takes off, walking swiftly towards a small flight of stairs that descend into a lower courtyard. Yuuri looks back over his shoulder, still stunned by everything that’s happened in the last quarter hour. 

“Where — when — ”

“We were riding for home,” Michele says, seriously. “I felt I couldn’t serve the king any longer, after what happened at the tourney. Sara convinced me I could still serve the kingdom.”

“Thank you for your service,” Victor says, coughing.

“Hush,” Yuuri says, whipping his head back around. “She said not to talk.”

“We’ll be back with help as soon as we can,” Sara says, from behind them, and there’s the sound of horse hooves against stone as they ride away.

Yuuri scarcely registers it, concerned now with Victor’s growing pallor and weakening grip. The flow of blood seems somewhat reduced now, but Victor’s breathing is shallow and labored, his chest rising and falling fast. Yuuri wishes he could get the heavy, restrictive plate mail off him, but there’s no way to do it that wouldn’t make things worse.

Victor looks up at him, and then his eyes flutter closed for a moment. They open and shut again, longer this time, his thick lashes lying against his cheek.

“Victor!” Yuuri says. 

“Yes?” Victor whispers. He doesn’t open his eyes.

A frantic fear comes upon Yuuri. He isn’t sure of the right course here — to keep Victor awake and risk exhausting him, or let him rest and risk losing him forever. He lowers his voice, though, trying to speak calmly. The way he did inside the Great Hall, he thinks, with Yuri in that dreadful state, no telling what he was about to do. The sight of Aerys’s blood-drained body flashes into Yuuri’s mind again, and he shudders, hard.

“Tell me what you’re going to do once King’s Landing is yours,” Yuuri says, quickly.

A faint smile crosses Victor’s face. He still doesn’t open his eyes. “Ours.”

Yuuri catches his breath. “That’s — I mean, you’re — I’m just a younger son. A tourney knight.”

“The champion of Harrenhal,” Victor says, and coughs again. “Besides, I can marry whoever I like, I’m the king.”

“Yes,” Yuuri says, softly. “You are.” He waits, but Victor doesn’t ask him anything more. He squeezes Victor’s hand again. “I wasn’t sure — you said you wanted me in your bed, but…”

Victor finally opens his eyes again, with an obvious effort. He raises an eyebrow, his gaze bleary but still disbelieving. “You’re a Stark. And besides, what did you _think_? Of course I want to marry you.”

“All right,” Yuuri says, and he smiles at last. Victor smiles too.

Yuuri feels his shoulders drop, an ache he hadn’t even been aware of in the back of his neck loosening up. The noise of the battle in the harbor gets quieter, while the sounds in the city grow louder; soldiers, citizens, shouts and cries. Their allies are marching to them, but at what a cost, Yuuri doesn’t like to think. 

“Good,” Victor mumbles, under his breath, and his eyes fall closed again. This time Yuuri just watches him, still holding his hand, kneeling by his side, and waits for help to come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note for fans who haven’t read or seen GoT:
> 
> The death of Aerys has been borrowed and rewritten somewhat from the book version. Yuri is a similar but distinct character to Jaime Lannister, who doesn’t reveal his motivations at the time Ned Stark finds him, but I love the image of the murdered king and the young golden-haired Kingsguard knight sprawled across the throne and wanted to reuse them here. (A further, major divergence is the fact that Prince Rhaegar remains loyal to his father during the Stark and Baratheon rebellion, though he’s secretly married Lyanna Stark, and has already been slain at the Battle of the Trident when his father is killed.)


	12. Twelve - Victor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can’t believe this is the penultimate chapter! We’ve also crossed the 100K mark, which is unbelievable to me. Thanks to everyone who’s been reading along so far, and to someitems for reading this over as always.
> 
> Minor notes for this chapter — if you aren’t familiar with ASOIAF, seasons in the world last for variable numbers of years (it’s nonsensical, but roll with it). I’ve also made the knight’s title of “Ser” gender-neutral.
> 
>  **Note:** Chapter 13 will go up on 2/23, as I’m taking some extra time on it to make it as good as it can be.

Victor becomes aware that he possesses a body, to his great regret.

The world around him is silent. Birdsong, perhaps, somewhere in the distance. A low voice — one he recognizes? But the most urgent sensation is the sharp pain in his side, like tongues of flame are licking at his body, taking him from within. 

_Summerhall_ , Victor thinks, and then — _dragonfire_.

He’s been dreaming of both for centuries, it seems. The palace that burned on the night of his birth, taking his great-grandfather the king and so many others, leaving only ashes and the box of three bright eggs behind. The dragons of his ancestors, wings darkening the shores and fields of Westeros, their lethal flames melting the towers of Harrenhal. The fire is in him, and all around him; an inexorable poison, turning everything it touches foul and twisted. He was born to it.

Victor realizes he’s moaning aloud, thrashing about in the bed, when cool hands touch his forehead. The low voice drifts down to him now, soft as snow. _Shh_ , and _sleep_ , and his name, so sweetly said. Victor knows himself again for a moment, and the voice as well.

“ _Yuuri_ ,” he breathes.

“Shh,” Yuuri says. “Sleep.”

*****

It’s dark when Victor next awakens. A good, thick, blanketing night, with the only thing visible a single candle flickering on the dresser. Victor can see more clearly now, as the world resolves into reality instead of strange blurred fire. The pain has receded to a stiff ache, with only the memory of agony. He turns his head, slowly, and sees an illuminated square. His own window, remembered from childhood; mullioned in diamonds that show the rich blue sky, speckled with sparkling stars.

He’s lain here so many nights, looking out this window, head heavy with bitter, weary thoughts. Tonight he looks down to see a different heaviness upon him — Yuuri Stark, sleeping pillowed across his legs. 

Victor smiles, sighing. The ache in his side has eased, almost gone, and the window is open just enough to let in the gentle night air. _Spring air_ , he thinks. It was no false warmth after all, but the start of the growing season, and long sweet sunny days ahead of them.

He lifts his hand, reaching to rest it on Yuuri’s head, sliding his fingers through his silky hair. He recalls Yuuri above him in the castle courtyard, how he spoke calmly even with fear in his eyes, and the clasp of his hand, giving comfort and safety. There’s so much Victor needs to consider, so many questions he’ll have to ask when Yuuri wakes, but right now he just wants to remember Yuuri that way — doing his best in desperate times, fighting by Victor’s side and then in his defense, overcoming challenges again and again. 

Victor thought he was in love last year, dancing in Yuuri’s arms, but that was nothing compared to the man he’s come to know, and the man Yuuri has become. 

He strokes his thumb across Yuuri’s forehead, a small motion that still sets Yuuri stirring, turning his head against Victor’s thigh. Yuuri takes in a deep, yawning breath, and then his eyes open, slow and lovely. 

For a moment, everything is laid bare between them. Yuuri gazes up, still and serious, and Victor looks back, feeling a settled sort of peace. After everything, the turmoil they fought through and the tragedies he has yet to learn of, they’re here, together. It’s not quite the end of the world, but it’s the end of a way of life, a pattern of thought, a bone-deep loneliness that shaped Victor more than he ever knew until it was over. There’s so much ahead, work and difficulty and strife, but somehow he has Yuuri by his side.

“Hello,” Yuuri says, softly. “How are you feeling?”

Victor strokes his face again. “Like I’ve slept for ten years and I never want to sleep again. Did you ever know there was so much in the world?”

Yuuri smiles. “You still have a touch of the fever, I see.”

Victor shakes his head. He wants Yuuri to understand, to know. “This is my room.”

“Yes,” Yuuri says, hesitant. “We thought you’d rather be here than…”

“Of course,” Victor says, speaking over him. “But, listen. Do you know how many nights I’ve lain in this bed, gazing out that window, wondering and wanting? _Waiting._ I didn’t even know what for. I thought I had everything. And I knew nothing.”

Yuuri just looks at him, eyes shining.

“And now I have the world,” Victor says, sighing.

“Yes,” Yuuri says, slowly. “And a crown.”

Victor presses his lips together for a moment. “Tell me.”

“The healers weren’t sure — ”

“Yuuri, please,” Victor says, low and urgent. “I need to know.”

Now Yuuri sighs. “He was already gone when I entered the throne room. I didn’t see it happen.”

Victor swallows. “By his own hand? He was proud, and I wondered — if it seemed that the tide of the battle was turning against him…”

“Victor,” Yuuri says, seriously. He closes his eyes for a moment, and then opens them. “Your cousin Yuri killed him.”

For a moment Victor can’t speak. He remembers Yuri as a graceful, bright-eyed child, in everybody’s way and belonging to nobody, and then as an insouciant, insolent squire, following everything Victor did with his hungry eyes. “Yuri did?” he asks, and his voice breaks.

Yuuri lifts his head and moves up the bed, coming to lie along Victor’s uninjured side. He curls up close, resting his hand on Victor’s cheek, turning him until they’re face to face. Victor shuts his eyes, letting Yuuri rest their foreheads together.

“You were right,” Yuuri says, hoarsely. “There were caches of wildfire all over the city. The king — your father — gave the order to someone to set them off. His pyromancer.”

“Rossart,” Victor says, blankly.

“You know wildfire won’t stop burning until it eats through everything it touches. Wood, metal, stone. The city would have been ashes, with all the gates barred against our army and the citizens trapped inside.” Yuuri pauses for a moment. “Yuri killed Rossart first, he says. But the king was still determined.”

“He would have done it,” Victor whispers. “He thought he was impervious to wildfire, I’ve heard him say it before. He thought it would burn away his human form, and he’d rise up from the flames as a winged dragon.”

They’re both silent for a moment, breathing heavily. Finally, Victor asks, voice thin, “Yuri slew him with his sword?”

“He was the only member of the Kingsguard left to guard him,” Yuuri says. “Instead he did his duty to the city, and the kingdom.”

Victor clenches his eyes shut tighter at the dreadful words. He’s sure it was the right thing to do, and perhaps more than even he could have done, but he hates to think of what it will mean for Yuri, to have killed the king he was sworn to protect. He wonders where the boy is now.

“He did his duty, at that,” Victor says, bitterly. “What about my mother? Was she with the rest of the court?”

“It seems she left before the siege began, along with your brother,” Yuuri says, sounding regretful. “It’s believed they sailed east.”

Victor nods. “There are royal allies in Braavos. She’ll be safe there, and I’ll send word ahead. Perhaps we can reconcile, one day.” He thinks of his mother, silent and pale, violet-eyed and distant. It seems like years since they’ve spoken honestly, or since he realized she could never protect him from his father nor would she try. He wonders how little Viserys will fare, a refugee prince abroad in a strange land.

He draws a deep, cleansing breath, moving forward. “How many days have I been ill?”

“Three,” Yuuri says. He stirs, getting up, and Victor opens his eyes again. “There are medicines here for you, and a posset of gruel, if you’re hungry.”

Victor makes a face, but his stomach growls at the mention of food, and now that he thinks about it he does feel hollow inside. He starts to sit up, then stops and winces at the pain that lances through his side.

Yuuri puts a hand on his chest, stopping him. “Don’t. I’ll help, if you’re hungry.”

He stands up from the bed, and Victor watches as he crosses the room, getting things from a side table, moving sure in the dim light. “What, you’ll spoon gruel into my mouth?” Victor asks, wryly.

Yuuri ignores him, gathering clinking bottles and a bowl, then turns around with a tray. “I’ll have you know I’m an excellent nursemaid,” he says. “And besides, who do you think has been spooning gruel into your mouth these last three days?” He snorts. “And more than that, besides.”

Victor groans. He hasn’t been seriously ill since he was a child, and the idea of being cared for while he was dazed and delirious makes him feel foolish, helpless. But Yuuri’s smiling at him, as he sits back down on the edge of the bed, settling the tray. 

“I should tell Nestor the healer and Maestra Minako that you’ve awoken,” Yuuri says, picking up a cloudy, foul-looking bottle. “I wasn’t the only one sponging your forehead. But,” he says, looking at Victor fondly. “I think I’ll keep you to myself for a while. And let them sleep through the night, for once.”

He pours out a spoonful of the liquid, and stirs it into the equally foul-looking porridge. Victor grimaces but opens his mouth, letting Yuuri feed him. The food tastes as bad as it looks, but he eats it eagerly, too hungry to do more than smile at Yuuri’s solicitous expression between bites.

“You do make an excellent nursemaid,” Victor says, when he’s finished. “But I prefer you as something bolder than that.”

A blush steals across Yuuri’s cheeks, and he clears his throat and looks away, the spoon clattering against the bowl as he gets up to put the tray back. Victor watches him again, seeing how his shoulders hunch up, discomfort in his posture. When Yuuri turns around, Victor gets up on one elbow carefully, smoothing his grimace into a smile.

“You were my knight,” he says, seriously. “Brave and true.”

Yuuri shakes his head, looking down at the floor. “I’d fought Blount before, and you were hurt. It wasn’t brave, it was just — necessary. And anyway if I’d stopped to think I would have been frightened.”

“Not just then,” Victor says. “The way you were, all through the castle. Guarding me through the keep, and then charging off and leaving me safe behind. You’re no coward, and you know it. It’s not the first time you’ve come to my aid.”

Yuuri licks his lips and looks back up, directly at Victor. “You mean it’s not the first time I’ve killed someone for you.”

The room blurs as Victor stares at Yuuri, and then he realizes it’s tears filling his eyes. Not for himself, but for Yuuri’s soft, bitter voice, and the way he’s standing, arms wrapped protectively across his body. Victor thinks of the boy he knew a year ago, laughing and unafraid, and the way Yuuri was when Victor first came to Winterfell, anxious and closed off but still somehow sure of his place in the world, innocent of the things he knows now. Victor left King’s Landing all those months ago to escape the intrigue and strife all around him, but instead he brought them into Yuuri’s life.

And now he’s here in the Red Keep again, with the old problems swept away and a host of new ones ahead.

“Oh, Yuuri,” Victor says, and holds out a hand.

Yuuri comes to him, eyes still downcast. He kneels by the bed, and Victor leans over to gather him in, Yuuri’s head pressed against his chest and his arm around Yuuri’s shoulders. Victor drops his face against the top of Yuuri’s head, and lets a few tears drop there too.

“You haven’t changed,” he whispers, hoarsely. “You’re who you always were. Perhaps you didn’t know it, but I did. I told you — brave and true.” He feels Yuuri sniffle against him, shoulders stiff but trembling. “I’m sorry I asked so much of you. But thank you, for always giving it to me.”

Yuuri lifts his face, flushed and wet with tears. “You know I’d give you anything.”

“You keep saying that,” Victor says, and laughs a little. “I really don’t understand, when we’ve only just…I mean, there was the Highgarden banquet, but you say you don’t remember that.”

“That might have been the first night we truly met,” Yuuri says, slowly. “But I’ve loved you since I was twelve years old.”

He’s blushing again as he says it, and Victor feels a furious heat come into his own face. Victor lies back on the bed, putting his hand on Yuuri’s face to keep him close, and just stares up at him, heart beating fast. He strokes his thumb over Yuuri’s cheek, trying to find the words.

“Twelve?” Victor says at last.

Yuuri smiles, leaning his head into Victor’s hand. “We traveled to a tourney. It was my first time south of the Neck. I saw you crowned champion, in your swan tabard, though I didn’t know then why you were wearing it.”

“Ah,” Victor says, realization going through him.

“You were only the prince to me then,” Yuuri says, softly. “And the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen. I took up the broadsword as soon as I returned home, dreaming I could someday meet you on the proving ground.”

“Well,” Victor says, his throat thick. “You did. And bested me too, in the end.”

Yuuri only smiles, reaching up to fold his hand over Victor’s. His gaze is soft and fond, and Victor feels like he finally understands so much. What he’d taken for deference, or Yuuri’s natural shyness, was far more than that. He feels like he’s climbed a hill only to find that it’s a mountain on the other side, a whole spreading green valley below him. 

Victor smiles, too, wide and brilliant and happy.

Fatigue steals upon him then, soft and heavy like a sudden weight falling. He yawns, his eyes falling shut of their own accord. He feels Yuuri shifting, tucking the blankets up around him. Yuuri brushes a hand across his forehead, pushing his hair aside.

“Sleep now,” Yuuri says, and his voice is sweet and compelling; a caress, not a command.

“Yuuri,” Victor murmurs, reaching for him.

“I’ll be here,” Yuuri says, moving in close. “Whenever you need me.”

*****

The sun streams through the window when Victor wakes up. He’s alone in the bed, and he blinks once, slowly, taking in the sight of his childhood room.

It’s a beautiful chamber, at first glance. The tall windows and the woven hangings on the walls, the carved furniture and rich rugs. His books line the shelves, and his collection of harps, varied and lovely. He made himself a life here, from the time he was very young.

But it was a refuge in some ways, and in others a prison. He was never truly safe in his room, which locked with a key he never possessed. Even the times he spent happy and alone here were always in lieu of being somewhere else, choosing solitude over difficult company. He doesn’t want to have to make that choice anymore.

There’s a soft rapping at the door, and he turns his head to see Yuuri coming in, followed by a familiar figure.

“Good morning,” Yuuri says, and steps aside. “You have a visitor.”

Ser Yakov has a vivid, healing slash across his cheek, and his heavy brows are pulled down in his usual scowl, but beneath that his eyes are as full of shining love as Victor’s ever seen them, and Victor can’t help smiling in return, lifting a hand.

“Yakov,” he says, pleased.

“Vitya,” Ser Yakov says, gruffly, but the fond expression in his eyes hasn’t changed. “You survived.” 

“So did you,” Victor says. “Come, tell me all about it. Yuuri’s hardly said anything to me about the battle.”

“I wasn’t there,” Yuuri says, his back to them as he prepares something on the side table. 

“I was,” Ser Yakov says, settling himself on the chair by Victor’s bedside, grimacing when he sits. He grunts and stretches out one leg in front of him. 

“How did it go?” Victor asks. “Did the artillery take down the gate as we’d hoped?”

Ser Yakov makes a face. “Almost. We’d nearly worn them down when suddenly the gates opened from the inside. By order of Lady Regula, the guards said, when they surrendered.”

“What?” Victor asks, blankly. 

“Precisely,” Ser Yakov says, wryly. “We didn’t understand it until later, but everyone was more worried about finding out what had happened to _your_ royal person. I knew you must have gone in through the secret tunnel, so I sent those two Daynes on with his maestra.” He nods at Yuuri. “Wonderful woman. Doesn’t stop until she gets what she wants.”

“You know about the secret tunnel?” Victor asks, chagrined.

Ser Yakov raises an eyebrow. “I’ve been the castellan of the Red Keep for longer than you’ve been alive, boy.”

Victor rolls his eyes. “So Lady Regula…”

Ser Yakov sighs. “The Lannisters had the fortunate timing of arriving the day of our attack. My understanding is that they came to the Lion Gate — fitting — and offered their support to the king. Once they were inside, they turned their coats and began killing everyone in sight.”

“So it was a ploy,” Victor says, slowly. “…in support of me.”

Ser Yakov fixes him with a look. “That’s one way of putting it.”

“I hardly see what else they could have had in mind,” Victor says, but he’s thinking of Lady Regula’s cool, expressionless blue eyes, and how little he really knows of her. For her to have secret plans beyond supporting his rebellion wouldn’t be surprising at all.

“At any event,” Ser Yakov says, pausing significantly. “The city guard opened the gates for us, and laid down their arms in short order. The Dayne woman came to tell me that you were at death’s door and the king was already dead, and then we had another bad few hours trying to find you and a healer and put you in the same spot. Not to mention declaring a new king, which still hasn’t been formally done.”

“Oh?” Victor asks. “I suppose you couldn’t exactly crown me unconscious and covered in blood.”

“You’d be surprised,” Ser Yakov says. “But no, Lady Regula is regent for now, or at least she’s doing her old job as Hand to the King. I imagine she’ll want to speak to you next.”

Victor nods, thinking that over. “And the battle itself? Were there any casualties I should know about?”

Ser Yakov shakes his head. “Lord Chenglei’s son suffered a cut to the head, and the Dornish heir hurt her shoulder. Overuse of the longbow, I believe. No other injuries of note.”

“Kenjirou,” Yuuri says, softly, turning around with a tray in hand.

“Eh?” Ser Yakov asks.

“My squire,” Yuuri says. He brings the tray to Victor; more porridge, and another bottle of cloudy liquid, but this time there’s a tangerine as well, already peeled and sectioned. Victor smiles up at him in thanks, and then touches his hand.

“Did he survive?” Victor asks, gently.

Yuuri nods. “Yes, but he took a bad blow to the knee. He’ll probably limp for the rest of his life, the healer said.”

“Ah,” Victor says. He recalls the boy had dreams of knighthood, following in Yuuri’s footsteps. It’s difficult to think of the exuberant Kenjirou confined to household tasks instead. “I’m sorry.”

Yuuri nods again. “I’ll leave you two.”

He goes out into the hall. Victor watches him go, and then looks back to see Ser Yakov’s eyes on him.

“You’ll need to sort out Regula quickly, Vitya,” Ser Yakov says, seriously. “Having a regent made sense while you were unconscious, but this is your kingdom now, and you need to take action to protect it. It’s your responsibility.”

 _So you’ve been telling me for two years,_ Victor wants to say, but instead he asks, mildly, “Why couldn’t you have said that while Yuuri was here?”

Ser Yakov frowns, glancing over his shoulder at the door through which Yuuri just departed. “We’re discussing royal matters of state, not injured squires.”

Now Victor frowns, struggling to sit up a little in bed. “We’re betrothed. There’s nothing you can’t discuss in front of him.”

“When he becomes your official consort — ”

“We’ll take the title together,” Victor says. “And I intend to set the succession through his line.”

Ser Yakov’s eyebrows fly upwards, for a change. “Through the Starks? You realize that will extinguish the Targaryen line.”

“Precisely,” Victor says, flatly.

There’s a silence, while Ser Yakov studies him. Finally he says, “Your cousin Yuri hasn’t spoken to anyone since we arrived, but the knights who found him in the throne room have spread the story of your father’s demise.”

A chill goes through Victor, imagining how the story must have grown in the telling. “Where is he?”

“In his old room in Maegor’s Holdfast, not in White Sword Tower with the rest of the Kingsguard. We have them under house arrest, since I’m sure you want to appoint an entirely new guard, but…”

Victor waves a hand, impatiently. “Later. Have you seen Yuri?”

“In a manner of speaking. He wouldn’t speak to me, or even look at me.”

Victor closes his eyes for a moment. Of all the pressing concerns of the moment, a wayward cousin should be low in priority, but he can’t help thinking of Yuri as a child, running after him to carry his helmet, so heavy the boy could hardly pick it up.

“Lilia’s with him,” Ser Yakov says, softly. “He won’t talk to her either, but she didn’t want him to be alone.”

Victor opens his eyes. “I heard she was back from the eastern continent. And she’s been training him?”

Ser Yakov nods. “To good result, as you saw. She always had the lighter touch. It suits him better.”

There’s clearly much more to be said, but Victor doesn’t press. He remembers Lilia and Yakov’s terrible fights when he was younger, so much more upsetting to him than the polite hostilities between his own parents. To think of Lilia here again is both comforting and strange. 

“Where was she during the battle?” he asks suddenly. 

“Sheltering in the sept with the rest of the court,” Ser Yakov says. “Which reminds me, I brought you something.”

He gets up with difficulty, clearly still healing from a new injury to his leg. Victor wants to ask about that, too, but knows Ser Yakov won’t say anything more about it than he would about his long-estranged wife. Ser Yakov crosses the room and comes back with a carved wooden box in his hands. A chill of horror and recognition goes through Victor, and he struggles to sit up all the way despite the healing wound in his side.

“These were in the throne room,” Ser Yakov says. “You know, your father was never parted from them in his last days. He was convinced — ”

Victor raises a hand to stop him. “I know what he was convinced of.” He swallows hard. “Part of the delusions that brought us to this pass. I wish they’d burned with the rest of Summerhall the night I was born.”

“They’re yours to do with as you please, now,” Ser Yakov says, and offers the box. “Sire.”

There’s a terrible, pounding pause as Victor stares at the box. It’s finely carved, patterns cut into the sides and a picture on the top, a fierce dragon with a long, curling tail and sharp horns, wings spread as it unleashes a plume of fire. The carving seems to move and dance before his eyes, the flames burning into the wood.

“Thank you,” Victor says, and takes the box. 

It’s heavy on his lap. He doesn’t open it. Ser Yakov doesn’t sit down again.

“You need to speak to Regula,” he says, quietly. “Show her that you’re strong, and that you’re taking what’s yours. Don’t let her keep your throne warm for too long. Appearances can be everything.”

Victor just looks up at him, resting his hands on the box of dragon eggs. The wood is cool beneath his fingers. He nods, and is faintly surprised to feel his shorter hair fall across his forehead, silky and smooth. He tosses his head, moving his hair out of his eyes.

“I’ll summon her once I’ve finished my breakfast,” he says.

*****

Victor’s still eating when Yuuri comes back in the room. He notices for the first time how tired Yuuri looks, dark circles beneath his eyes and his skin paler than usual. Victor reaches up a hand to him, drawing Yuuri to sit on the edge of the bed and still spooning porridge with his other hand.

Yuuri sighs. “I’m glad to see you have an appetite. What’s that?”

He points to the carved wooden box, sitting on the beside table now. Victor shakes his head. “I’ll tell you later. Do you know if Lady Regula is in the keep?”

Yuuri makes a face, pressing his lips together. “I was just coming to tell you. She’s seeking an audience with you, someone says.”

Victor takes another bite. It’s a calculated move, her coming to him when he’s only just recovered, seeking audience as though it were her choice and not his. He’s not ready to assign the motives that Ser Yakov clearly does, but it does tell him to be wary. Lady Regula is much more skilled at court politics than he ever wanted to be.

“Well, let me finish this excellent porridge and someone can send for her,” Victor says. He takes another bite, looking sidelong at Yuuri. “Did the servant say why she wants to see me?”

Yuuri shakes his head. His face is so honest and open, it almost hurts Victor, seeing it here. This palace has always felt like a trap, a nest of twisting passages and lying words. He hates to open Yuuri’s eyes to the potential for treachery all around them, but he doesn’t think Yuuri will survive here if he doesn’t begin to learn the Red Keep’s ways.

“Well,” Victor says, and swallows a last bite. “She’s assumed the position of regent, while I was injured. That means the power of the kingdom is in her hands, for good or ill. Ser Yakov has suggested it’s time for me to take it back, before it’s too late.”

“But,” Yuuri starts, and frowns. “You aren’t fully recovered. You can’t sit on a throne and — do whatever it is a king does all day. Make decisions, hear petitions.”

“And a thousand other things,” Victor finishes. “No, I fancy it will take me a little more time. I don’t mind having Regula do the administrative work while I recover. But appearances can be everything.”

Yuuri frowns harder. “You think that people will treat her as the queen if she holds the regency too long? But she’s not of royal blood.”

“Ser Yakov thinks as much,” Victor says. “I simply want to speak with her.”

Yuuri hesitates for a moment, looking at Victor like he wants to say something. Finally a determined look comes into his eyes, and he opens his mouth to speak.

“The people of the city are still frightened,” he says. “Our side didn’t do as much harm as they could have, but they just suffered through a civil war, however brief. I know you aren’t like your father, but _they_ don’t, and all they’ve seen of the crown the last few years is Lady Regula acting as Hand of the King.”

“And?” Victor asks, frowning.

Yuuri sighs. “And she’s your ally now. It seems to me that a united front with the Houses of Westeros is what people want from the throne.” He adds, softer, “People want peace. They’ve lived in fear long enough.”

Victor studies him for a moment. “I’ll take that under advisement.”

“All right,” Yuuri says, with a wry smile. He reaches out and touches Victor’s leg through the blankets, gentle and reassuring. “Finish your breakfast and I’ll go find someone to bring her here.”

A quarter of an hour later Victor’s lying back on his pillows, staring out the window, when the knock comes on the door. 

“Enter,” he says, loudly, and turns his head back to see Lady Regula crossing the room.

Unlike his other visitors, she looks fresher than ever. No sick bed vigils or siege warfare for the Lady of Casterly Rock; she’s dressed in a cloth of gold gown that’s still not as bright as her fair hair, pulled back today in a thick braid that goes halfway down her back, fanning out into loose yellow waves below that. She smiles at him, widely, with the condescending air of speaking to a small child.

“Your Highness,” she says, and bows gracefully, spreading her skirt with her heart over her hand. “It’s good to see you awake again.”

“Thank you,” Victor says. He doesn’t sit up more than he already is, still reclining across the feather pillows behind him. He’s sure he looks worse than even Yuuri does, but he only smiles, faintly. “How does the kingdom fare?”

“Well enough,” Regula says. “Still some chaos amongst the citizens, of course, but the city guard has remained loyal.”

“Hmm,” Victor says. “In a sense, I suppose.”

“Loyal to House Targaryen,” Regula clarifies, her smile tighter than before. “And whoever happens to rule it.”

“Yes,” Victor says. “About that. I suppose we should have a coronation? I don’t know whether to make it a small affair or a large one. Perhaps the kingdom needs distraction, or perhaps the smallfolk would rather just carry on as before, without noticing which Targaryen arse sits on that uncomfortable throne. How are you finding it, by the way?”

“Tolerable,” Regula says, and now her smile is pure ice. 

“I recommend a good feather cushion,” Victor says. “That’s what my cousins and I used, when we played in the throne room. Quite against my father’s orders, of course — we were beaten rather severely when he found out. I don’t recall if you were the Hand at the time.”

“Not yet, Your Highness,” Regula says. There’s a pause. “I’m not sure a coronation full of pomp and circumstance is what the kingdom needs just yet. A civil war is ugly, and the smallfolk don’t always care to be reminded that they’re grist for the mills of the powerful. Most do not notice who holds the throne, as you say, so long as taxes are low and the harvest is good.”

“I can hardly do much about the latter,” Victor says. “We aren’t planning to raise taxes, are we?”

“Not at this time,” Regula says, with another chilly smile.

“Well, I can wait on the coronation, I suppose,” Victor says. “I have a wedding to plan, so perhaps we should wait until we can make it a double crowning.”

“Oh?” Regula asks, one slim eyebrow raised.

Victor remembers, suddenly, the long-ago talk of betrothing him to her son Christophe. He never knew exactly why the discussions fell through, though he suspects it was something to do with his father’s paranoia and pride, as well as his desire to find a royal match for Victor. Watching Regula’s face now, he can tell the disinterest didn’t come from her side.

“I’d like to marry Yuuri Stark as soon as possible,” Victor says. “Yesterday, even.”

Regula hesitates. “Do you think forming such an irrevocable alliance is the wisest move just now? There may be other factions to settle, the Iron Islands or Dorne…as long as you remain unattached, you hold a very valuable negotiating position.”

Victor just looks at her. The idea of using his own hand in marriage as a political tactic is repugnant to him, but he knows it’s far from an unusual suggestion. Regula and the rest of the Small Council are simply going to have to get to used to having an unusual king.

“I’m afraid that’s out of the question,” he says, lightly. “Since I don’t care to marry someone from either the Iron Islands or Dorne…or anyone but my betrothed.”

“Ah,” Regula says, nodding. “So the rumors were true — a love match.”

“Very much so,” Victor says.

Regula smiles, and it’s less icy than before. “Well,” she says. “The smallfolk will certainly be more interested in that, though it may cause trouble amongst your other alliances. Should we begin preparations for a state wedding, then? It will take some time.”

“I’m not certain,” Victor says, frowning. “I’ll have to speak to him.”

She smiles, condescending like when she first entered the room, and takes a step backwards. “If that’s all you wanted, Your Highness…”

“Stay,” Victor says, and she pauses. He struggles a little more upright in bed. “I understand you were seeking an audience before I awoke. Was there something you wanted to discuss?”

Regula hesitates, her glance darting sideways. He realizes she’s looking at the carved wooden box on the table behind him. “Only some matters of administrative business. We can tend to them when you’re feeling better.”

“I am well,” Victor says. “Certainly well enough to hold a conversation.”

She stands up a little straighter, setting her shoulders back in her gorgeous, shimmering gown. Victor waits. 

“The Small Council is full of your father’s retainers,” she says, crisply. “None of them declared for you during the siege, to my knowledge. I came to suggest that you dismiss them all and fill the positions with people loyal to yourself instead.”

Victor blinks. She’s speaking largely of men and women his father chose in latter years, more for their craven loyalty than for any good qualities in themselves. Her suggestion is sound, but he can’t help searching for a hidden motive.

“You wish your fellow Council members to be dismissed?” Victor asks, letting an arch tone creep into his voice. 

To his surprise, a high pink blush comes into her face for a moment, before she seems to get herself under control. Regula sets her face, jaw tight and eyes stern. “We both know what kind of Council members your father preferred recently. Some of them have scarcely held the position for six months. It’s in the best interests of the kingdom to find more competent people, starting immediately with the Master of Coin.”

“And you’ll spearhead the effort, I suppose.”

The color stains her cheeks again, lingering this time. Regula swallows, hard, and twists her hands together before she speaks.

“Your Highness, you seem to suspect some hidden motive of mine,” she says, and her voice is low and tight, heavy with checked emotion. “If you like, I can resign as Hand effective immediately, and you can appoint an entirely fresh Small Council. The Seven know, I tried to resign often enough, but your father would never accept it. I am trying to offer you advice for the good of the kingdom.”

She could be play-acting, Victor knows. Perhaps there’s some element of that here, intended to guide him away from her true intentions. But Victor hears the intensity in her voice, and he thinks of the years she spent keeping Westeros on a steady course while his father drifted further into madness. He thinks, too, of Yuuri’s words; _people want peace._ He doesn’t want to find Regula’s knife in his back, but he doesn’t want another war, if he can help it.

“I don’t want your resignation,” Victor says. “Only your honest guidance. When I am entirely recovered, we’ll sit down and decide on a new council together. For now — dismiss any pyromancers who remain.”

He grimaces as he says it, and he sees Regula wince too. He doesn’t think he’ll ever get over the knowledge of how near the city came to true disaster.

She nods. “Will that be all?”

“For now,” he says. “Thank you.”

“Of course,” Regula says. “Sire.”

She bows again and turns away, leaving an echo of her last word in Victor’s ears. Perhaps mocking, perhaps sincere, and likely he’ll never know the truth. He trusts her more than he did, but it seems that the best way to deal with her is to keep her close, making use of her talents but always knowing she might someday use them against him.

*****

The next day, Victor rises from his bed, against everyone’s wishes. His side still pains him, where the deep slashing wound is healing, but his legs work perfectly well, as he keeps reminding the healers, and it feels like he’s been abed for months. The Red Keep is his now, and he wants to take stock of it.

His father’s Kingsguard, or what’s left of it, is still under house arrest in the Tower of the White Sword, awaiting his decision as to their fates. Yuuri accompanies him instead, one hand hovering as if he’d like to take Victor’s elbow.

“I’m fine,” Victor says, though his steps are slow and halting, the muscles of his legs still stretching out. He holds himself stiffly, trying not to pull at his injury, and goes slowly, glad he had the corridors cleared before leaving his room. “You don’t need to keep your other hand at your sword. If we’re attacked within Maegor’s Holdfast, the treachery has already gone too far and it’ll be too late for us.”

Yuuri makes a face, embarrassed, and clasps both hands behind his back. “The last time we walked these halls together, it was different.”

“Yes,” Victor says, those tense hours coming back to him. It feels like it was more than a handful of days in the past, another lifetime entirely. Sunlight comes in through the high window slits carved into the reddish walls, making the red stone glow rosy and warm, as he remembers from his childhood days. The same rugs on the floors, growing threadbare with use, and the smells of the midday meal coming up from the kitchens below. Home, but without that sense of dread and foreboding that had grown so unbearable in recent years.

It’s been replaced by an unsettled feeling of guilt and regret, though; a sense of irrevocable change. The guards he passes as they walk nod their heads with the same deference as before, but it’s detached, respect for his new position instead of affection for their crown prince. Victor can already feel his old self retreating, his personal accomplishments fading into the gleam of the crown.

“Where are we going?” Yuuri asks, as they head up a flight of stairs. 

“I need to pay a visit,” Victor says. “And I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to wait outside.”

“That’s all right,” Yuuri says, glancing over at him. “I only hope he’s willing to speak to you.”

“Have you seen him yet?” Victor asks. He pauses, leaning his hand on the wall, and catches his breath.

Yuuri shakes his head. “I was looking after you when they brought him here, and since then he hasn’t opened his door willingly for anyone. I know Ser Yakov tried.”

“Mm,” Victor says. He pushes off the wall and begins to ascend again. “Well, I’m not sure I’ll have anything better to say to him than Ser Yakov did, but I need to see him.”

“He was in a bad state when I found him,” Yuuri says, following behind. “I think he’d been in a very difficult position, these last weeks.”

“A position he never would have been in, except for me,” Victor says, bitterly. “My father took him into the Kingsguard as a hostage, assuming my affection for him would keep me from attacking the city. What a surprise, to find my father thinking better of me than I really am, for once.”

“You couldn’t have done anything except what you did,” Yuuri says, softly. “You know that.”

“If Yuri had died during the attack…” Victor trails off.

“He would have been one of thousands who perished if your father had managed to burn the city down,” Yuuri says, his voice stronger now. “You know it was the right choice.”

Victor clenches his jaw, shaking his head. Yuuri’s speaking the truth, but he can already see that he’s in for years of _right choices_ that feel like he’s been hemmed into them by an unseen force, feeling wrong no matter what he decides.

“I need to speak with him,” is all he says, mounting the stairs once again.

There’s a guard posted outside Yuri’s room. Victor recognizes the woman on the left, Darela, who’s been part of the household guard since he was small. She doesn’t smile, though, or make any expression as she lowers her gaze, and Victor has that sensation again of being a stranger in his own home.

He turns the handle, opening the door slightly, and hears an explosive curse from within as he does so.

“I said I didn’t want any lunch.”

Victor pushes the door open wider, stepping inside. The room is dark, the curtains drawn, but he can make out the form of Ser Lilia Baranskaya, doing needlework in the filtered light by one of the windows. A slight figure sits hunched on the bed, knees drawn up and his head resting on his crossed arms, with his back to her and the door as well.

“Fortunately, I didn’t bring any,” Victor says, shutting the door behind him.

Yuri turns his head sharply, hair falling in his face as he looks over his shoulder. “Oh, it’s you,” he says, and turns his back on Victor again.

“Hello, Ser Lilia,” Victor says. “It’s good to see you.”

Ser Lilia glances up at him over her needlework, her eyes as sharp as ever. Then she lays it on a small table at her elbow and rises, spreading out her full silver skirts and dropping gracefully into a full court curtsy. She wears a fox fur around her neck, despite the increasingly warm weather, and the same look Victor remembers from ten years ago; appraising and finding him ever so slightly wanting.

She crosses the room then, taking him by the shoulders and pressing an airy kiss to each cheek. “Your Highness,” she says. “Sire.”

Victor shakes his head. “No titles, please. Not when you’ve whipped me over your knee more times than I have years.”

Ser Lilia makes a face. “Surely not so many,” she says, but she’s smiling, pleased. “And I’m not your sparring mistress anymore. You’ve ascended beyond me, Vitya.”

“Thanks in part to your help,” Victor says, touching her shoulder fondly. “But I’m afraid I do have a royal errand here. Perhaps you’d like to step outside and make the acquaintance of my betrothed.”

“The northerner?” Ser Lilia says, eyebrow raised. “I’ve heard much about him. I admit, I’d like to meet the man who bested you.”

“In more ways than one,” Victor says, seriously.

She smiles, tilting her head. “I wasn’t speaking of the tourney grounds.”

With a small bow, she sweeps past him, just glancing at Yuri as she goes. Victor feels a small pang of conscience, setting Ser Lilia Baranskaya on Yuuri alone and without warning, but it’s far from the worst he’ll have to face within these walls. And besides, he rather thinks Yuuri can hold his own, now.

Victor turns, squaring his shoulders, and speaks to the back of Yuri’s head. He clears his throat, letting the royal mantle descend on him for the moment. “Ser Yuri Targaryen. Your king has a request of you. It would be proper to turn and face me while receiving it.”

Yuri turns his head so fast his hair whips around, and scowls. “I thought you were supposed to say ‘us’ instead of ‘me,’ now that you’re the _king_.” He says the last word like it’s a curse, spitting it out.

“Probably,” Victor says. “I’ve always found that no one minds a breach of etiquette if you act like you know what you’re doing, though.”

“And do you?” Yuri asks. “Know what you’re doing?”

Victor just looks at him, for a long moment. “You are the only member of the Kingsguard not currently imprisoned. You are also the only member who did not remain loyal to the king. As the new sovereign, I would like a full report of your actions during the recent war.”

Yuri blinks at that, looking like he’s just been slapped. “You want to know what happened?”

“In your own words, yes.”

“Whose words have you been listening to?”

“Whose do you think?” Victor asks, gentler now.

Yuri shakes his head, his eyes glittering. “Whatever I said — I don’t even remember now. It’s just a blur. When _he_ found me…and what happened before then.”

Victor regards him, nodding his head as he presses his lips together. He’s still feeling his way out here, but it seems like Yuri is standing on a ledge alone, liable to fall or to jump if Victor says the wrong thing. He senses, just as strongly, that Yuri wants to be pulled back in.

The only chair in the room is the one Lilia just vacated, a heavy wooden armchair. Victor drags it across the room to the other side of the bed, where Yuri’s still sitting with his knees drawn up. Victor takes a seat, resting his arms, and leans back in the chair, getting comfortable. Yuri watches him all the while.

“Start with the ride back from Harrenhal,” Victor says, calmly.

Yuri’s mouth opens, and he takes a quick breath, in and out, expelling the air forcefully. “He was furious. You know that.”

“Yes,” Victor says. 

“First about you and your barbarian. And then your disobedience. And somewhere in there it turned into…” Yuri stops, closing his eyes and swallowing hard. “You know. Dragons and fire. What he’s always talking about.”

“Yes,” Victor says again, but his voice is rougher now. Yuri’s speaking of his father like he’s still alive.

“And when we arrived back home, it got worse. He was preparing for war. I didn't know when it would come…or how. I did my duty. I tried my best.”

Yuri speaks fiercely now, and his eyes glitter again, unshed tears bright against the green. Victor’s heart aches, looking at him. “I know you did,” he says, making the words as sympathetic as he can.

At his tone, though, Yuri’s chin jerks up. “Don’t feel sorry for me. I’m a knight of the Kingsguard. I knew what I was doing. I murdered the king I was sworn to protect.”

They regard each other, for a long minute. Victor can see how hard Yuri’s clenching his jaw, chin quivering. Tears spill over, but they seem sharp and angry, catching what little light there is in the dim room. Yuri’s hair falls around his face, yellow and tangled, and his shoulders are tense and high as he stares back at Victor.

“Tell me,” Victor says at last. “What do you think I should do?”

“To me?” Yuri asks, his voice going higher on the last word. “You mean, how should I be punished?”

“Hm,” Victor says, in a considering tone. He’s thinking of Yuri’s future, the names he’ll be called and the legend he’ll bear, and his own as well. “Have you told anyone the true story? Rossart, and the wildfire caches?”

Yuri shakes his head. 

“You understand, I’m beginning my reign under a pall,” Victor says, slowly. “My father was feared and despised, but a rebellion is still a rebellion. People will say that I should have given him the chance to surrender.”

“He never would have surrendered to you,” Yuri says. “You were worse than dead to him.”

It’s what Victor suspected, but it’s still a sickening blow to hear it, in Yuri’s flat, bitter tones. He never really believed in the possibility of reconciliation, but to know it was gone forever the day his father departed Harrenhal still stings. He swallows hard, moving on. “We know that, but the kingdom doesn’t. I think it’s necessary to make the whole story public.”

Yuri’s silent for a moment, glowering at him, and then he bursts out, “I don’t want to look as though I’m making excuses. I can stand by my own actions. You don’t have to protect me.”

 _Don’t you want to be known as the knight who saved the city?_ Victor wants to ask, but he doesn’t. He senses that in some strange way, Yuri wants to wear the notoriety he’s earned, kingslayer and kinslayer. Not out of love of fame, or the desire to distinguish himself, but as though he deserves it for what he did.

“Listen,” Victor says, calmly. “If I punish you, I signify that your action was wrong and delegitimize myself. If I do nothing, I found my reign on the killing of my father by his own guard. I need to find another way.”

Yuri’s eyes are huge now, watching him; wary and disbelieving. He’s listening, though.

“The story of your heroic bravery needs to be told,” Victor says. “And then we must announce that you asked for a release from my Kingsguard and I granted it.”

“What,” Yuri says, blankly.

“I can’t dismiss you without the aura of a punishment,” Victor says. “And…you cannot stay.”

There’s a silence. Yuri blinks, rapidly. “Where am I to go?”

“That’s a question for the future,” Victor says, and adds, softly, “I’ll always take care of you.”

Yuri’s eyes flash. “I don’t need your help.”

“But I need yours,” Victor says. “I need your testimony that the king was unstable, and unfit to rule.”

“Everyone already knows that.”

“Yuri,” Victor says, a plea and a warning at once. He doesn’t want to issue a command, because everything depends on Yuri making this choice.

Yuri sucks in a breath and holds it, lips pressed tight together. Finally he sighs. “What do you want me to do?”

“There will have to be some kind of official investigation. Lady Regula can order it, since the Lannisters remained neutral until the end. The high court will ask you for your story, and you’ll give it. You’ll be a heroic, tragic figure, and then you’ll offer your resignation from the guard.”

“And disappear,” Yuri says, through gritted teeth.

“Not literally,” Victor says, with a smile. “I’ll grant you those lands I spoke of once. Perhaps a small title. A Kingsguard knight should retire with honor.”

Yuri takes in another breath, another heavy sigh. “All right. But I don’t want your lands, or your stupid title. I’ll make my own way.”

Victor nods, and rises from the chair. “Can I send anyone in to you? They say you wouldn’t speak to anyone, though I see that didn’t stop Ser Lilia.”

Yuri snorts. “I don’t care. I won’t be here much longer anyhow.” 

He turns his head away, hair falling across his face as he lays his head on his arms again, resting on his drawn-up knees. Yuri faces the wall, hunched into himself, and Victor feels a reeling sickness, pain and regret mingled with guilt. He’s always protected his cousin as best as he could, but even now that he’s the king, there’s only so much he can do. The world is as it is.

“Yuri,” he says again, as gentle as he can make it. His throat is thick as he says, “Thank you,” and then, “I’m sorry.”

Yuri just shrugs, still looking away. Victor pauses, and then goes out. 

In the corridor he’s surprised to see Yuuri in conversation, not with Ser Lilia but with Otabek Baratheon. Yuuri looks up as the door opens and Victor approaches.

“All right?” Yuuri asks, with a small, rueful smile.

Victor nods. “We came to an agreement. Ser Otabek, well-met. I trust you acquitted yourself well in battle?”

“I’m still here,” Otabek says, his face expressionless.

“And your foes are not,” Victor says. “I thank you for your service.”

Otabek makes a slight bow. “As promised, sire.”

“Are you here to pay a visit to my cousin?” Victor asks. “He hasn’t been permitting visitors, but…”

“I know,” Otabek says. He frowns, a look of concern passing over his face. “I’ve been here several times. The guards turned me away.”

“I was about to say, he might be willing now,” Victor says. “If he refuses you again, tell the guards that you’re allowed admittance by royal command.”

“No, I couldn’t presume,” Otabek says. “I wouldn’t want to invade his privacy, even with Your Highness’s blessing.”

“He needs you,” Victor says, bluntly. “Whether he knows it or not. If I can’t use the royal command to help him, what good is it?”

Now a wry smile twists Otabek’s lips, for just a moment. “I came to offer to take him back to Storm’s End with me, when I depart.”

“Excellent,” Victor says. “I think we both understand why that will be necessary. I’m glad to find you willing.”

“More than willing, sire,” Otabek says. “If Your Highness will excuse me…?”

“Of course,” Victor says. He steps aside, letting Otabek pass, and turns to see Yuuri watching them both, a slight frown on his face.

“Yuri can’t stay here, can he?” Yuuri asks, his gaze following Otabek as he speaks to the guards, then goes through the chamber door.

“No,” Victor says. “He can’t.”

Yuuri sighs. “And he’ll never escape the consequences of what he did.”

“It’s only talk,” Victor says. “And he’s under my royal protection. Someday people will forget, or it will only be a dim memory.”

Yuuri shakes his head, looking back at Victor. “No. You didn’t see him in the throne room. He killed a man he knew. No one ever forgets doing that.”

His eyes are narrow, his mouth tense, and Victor remembers what he said a few nights ago. _It’s not the first time I’ve killed someone for you._ It comes to Victor that his reign is only a few days old and already built on so many deaths, so many sacrifices.

“Yuri will heal in time,” he says, softly. “He can’t change the past, but he has so much ahead of him. A lifetime.”

He doesn’t know who he’s trying to convince, Yuuri or himself, but a light comes into Yuuri’s eyes, and a small smile crosses his face. There’s still a shadow there, and Victor wonders, with a chill, if there always will be, but Yuuri reaches out and takes Victor’s hand, folding his fingers over it.

“A lot can happen in a lifetime,” Yuuri says.

*****

Yuuri’s the one who brings it up, over luncheon in bed. He’s been sleeping on a couch across the room at night, giving Victor space to heal, but they’ve been eating sitting side by side, propped against the headboard. Today the window is open, letting in sunshine and birdsong from the godswood below, and they haven’t been talking much, just sharing a light meal and letting the heavier events of the morning lie quiet for now.

“How soon do you plan to hold your coronation?” Yuuri asks, taking a bite from the bread in his hands.

“Ours,” Victor says, without thinking.

Yuuri coughs, swallowing his bread. “I’m sorry?”

“We’ll have to be married first,” Victor says, turning to him. “A state wedding will be no small undertaking, I’m afraid. I expect your family will want to travel south, and of course we’ll have to invite anyone of note in Westeros. The whole thing will be very tiresome to arrange, but I imagine it could be done within a few months with the right encouragement. Perhaps by spring.” 

By the time he finishes speaking, Yuuri’s staring at him, mouth hanging frankly open and eyes wide. “A state wedding?”

Victor sighs. “It’s a terrible inconvenience, I know, but it’s what’s expected. We can’t exactly hold a quiet private ceremony in King’s Landing.”

“Victor,” Yuuri says, after a moment. “I couldn’t take part in any such thing. I’d feel ridiculous.”

Victor frowns. “Well, I’m not going to be crowned without you. So.”

Yuuri lets out a sigh, half laughing in exasperation. “You’d deprive the kingdom of a ruler just so you can make me stand up and look like a fool in front of the nobility of Westeros and half the city?”

“Likely the entire city,” Victor says. He puts down his spoon and reaches out to touch Yuuri’s hand. “But yes, I want to claim you in front of the kingdom and the Seven, and pledge myself as yours in return. Is that so strange?”

“For a start,” Yuuri says, smiling warmly at him. “We Starks worship our old gods, and not the Seven. The wedding ceremonies of the north are not quite so… emotional.”

“Tell me about them,” Victor says, resting his head against the headboard as he looks at Yuuri. He clasps Yuuri’s hand tighter.

“They’re simple,” Yuuri says. There’s a faint blush rising in his cheeks now, giving a brightness to his eyes. “And private, with just close family and intimate friends. We speak the ancient words and pledge our troth. Our hands are bound, and…I forget the rest.”

He looks down, still flushing, and Victor doesn’t believe he’s truly forgotten for a moment. Victor smiles, bringing Yuuri’s hand to his lips.

“That sounds lovely, and very charming. I only wish…” He trails off, thinking.

“Yes?” Yuuri says, looking up again.

“There’s no reason we couldn't,” Victor says, slowly.

Yuuri shakes his head. “It’s not the ceremony. I don’t want a _state wedding_ , no matter how it’s done.”

“No,” Victor says. “What if we traveled back to Winterfell, and were married there?”

“Oh,” Yuuri says. He looks at Victor, eyes as wide as before. “Could we?”

“I don’t see why not,” Victor says. “I’m the king, after all.” He speaks lightly, but he knows there are a dozen protocol keepers who will all have their say, let alone the people with real influence. He’s sure Lady Regula will object, and his councillors as well, but he’s about to embark on a lifetime of being ruled by their advice. He wants to decide just this one small thing for himself, before it all begins.

Yuuri leans in, resting his forehead against Victor’s temple. “I’d like to go home again,” he says, softly. “See my family and — say goodbye. For good, this time.” Victor hears him swallow, hard. “And besides, you have to fetch Makkachin.” 

“True,” Victor says. He turns to face Yuuri, his face serious. He’s beginning to realize how much he’s been asking of Yuuri, without ever really asking at all. What’s between them has grown overnight, it seems, from a tremulous potential to this great flourishing love, with deeper roots than either of them knew. It’s changed everything, inside and around them, and though Victor hasn't given him much choice, Yuuri has hardly ever said anything but _yes_.

Victor wants to hear it, for real this time. He reaches out to cup Yuuri’s face, caressing him, and Yuuri looks up at him with those gentle eyes, full of so much emotion. He’s lost that old hesitating reticence, the feeling he might dart away at any time, but Victor still feels the need to hold him tight, keeping him close.

“I never asked you, did I?” Victor says, low. “If you wanted all this. Or perhaps I did, and you said no — you turned down my offer to mentor you in court politics, after all.”

“I want _you_ ,” Yuuri says. “Not just a mentor. You weren’t offering all of yourself, back then.”

“Oh, but I was,” Victor says, with a fleeting smile. “You just didn’t hear me right.”

“Well, I’ll take the court politics if I have to,” Yuuri says, tilting up his chin. “If it comes with all the rest.”

“You will?” Victor murmurs. Their faces are very close together now.

“Yes,” says Yuuri, and leans in to kiss him.

A bird breaks into song, joined by another and another, joyful madcap music beneath the open window. Victor knows how they feel. Spring is returning to Westeros, slowly but steadily, and with it the promises of warmth and change and renewal once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Gonzo voice* “And tiny Kenjirou — who did NOT die...” 
> 
> (It was a near thing but I decided to spare him.)


	13. Thirteen - Yuuri

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soooo in an entirely GRRM-like turn of events, I realized this chapter was getting longer and longer, and decided the first two-thirds actually stands alone quite well as its own chapter. The total count goes up by one, again, and most importantly I plan to get the final installment up next week, rather than in two weeks (*fingers crossed*).
> 
> Thanks to everyone for hanging in during the delay! Illness and the Olympics also intervened. Thanks to someitems as always for reading this over.

Yuuri dreams of the road north.

Sometimes the morning skies are grey, wreaths of fog curling across the Kingsroad to gather beneath the sentinel trees on either side of them. But the ever-brightening spring sunshine burns through by midday, and the way is clear before them once more. No weed-choked sloughs or worn-out tracks, losing them in the bogs of the Neck; only the good strong road leading home.

It won’t be Yuuri’s home much longer. For all the years he spent in Dorne, he’s always thought of Winterfell as where he came from and where he belonged, the place he expected to end of his days. A traveling tourney career, as long as he could justify the cost with his successes, and then back to the cold nights and flowing hot springs of his home, shrouded in the forests. He never fully envisioned a future for himself, but the north was always waiting, a place of refuge and comfort, the home of his heart.

And now King’s Landing is to be his home. The tarry docks and red towers, the muddy bottoms and unexpected hills, the cries of townspeople and gulls alike. It’s a sprawling, secretive city, hemmed in by walls and water, but Yuuri thinks he’ll come to love it at least a little, because it belongs to Victor.

Everything in Westeros belongs to Victor now, or it will after the coronation. Until then Lady Regula Lannister will keep the throne for him as regent, while he infuriates everyone by riding north for their wedding. 

“You can’t get married in some hole and corner affair!” Lady Marbrand snaps, when Victor first announces his intentions to his Small Council. She’s the newly-appointed Mistress of Laws, and seems to keep acres of protocol in her head beneath her long grey hair. “By the Seven, you’ve just taken the city by force and the crown by blood. You can’t finish that by gallivanting off to get married in secret to some northern second son whom nobody’s ever heard of.” 

“Excuse me, but he won the great tourney of Harrenhal,” Victor says, mildly. “I wager a few people had heard of him after that.”

“Only because he won by dueling your royal self,” says Lord Oakheart, Master of the Navy. “No one knows him except in connection with you.”

“Well, that’s simple,” Victor says, straightening up. “We’ll just have to let them get to know him. Open some mercantile fairs, attend the theater with me. He’ll be beloved by the people within the week.”

The Council grumbles, and Victor smiles, and Yuuri thinks that this is just the start of years of conflict between the two.

“They don’t truly need to know him,” Lady Regula says, after the others have departed. “They only need to know that their king is besotted, once you’ve let the story of your near-tragic love story come out. The duel, and your father’s ultimatum. How either of you could have perished at the other’s swordpoint, and how you nearly gave up a kingdom for him.” She smiles, a little sardonically. “It’ll whet the public’s appetite for the wedding you aren’t giving them, of course, but they’ll understand why you’re willing to travel to the barbaric north for his sake.”

“Excuse me,” Yuuri says, less mildly than Victor did.

Regula turns to him. “You won’t be a barbarian to them for long. Or else they’ll find your ways charming, and it won’t matter. But for now, you remain the northern stranger who’s captured the king’s present, and his future as well.”

Yuuri asks Victor about that, later, as they prepare for bed. “What did she mean by capturing your future? That sounds like I’ve got some sort of hold over you, or undue influence.”

Victor sighs, laying down his brush at the mirror. “I suppose you’re the one person I haven’t discussed it with. Since there won’t be any natural heirs, I intend to set succession to the throne through your line. Mari’s children, hopefully, or your mother’s relations if necessary.”

For a long minute Yuuri can only stare at him, breathless and stunned. “Through my line? But you have your own relations. Your cousins’ children, or — ”

Victor shakes his head, and comes across the room to join Yuuri in bed. “The Targaryens were conquerors. This land was never ours except by force. It’s only right that it return to the original rulers.”

“But there _was_ no ruler of Westeros, before the dragon lords came,” Yuuri says. “Only the seven houses. If the other six won’t accept a Stark on the throne…”

“I expect to spend the rest of my life accustoming them to the idea,” Victor says, firmly. “And besides, your people were styled kings and queens of the north long before the dragon lords arrived. Aren’t you descended from the First Men?”

Yuuri nods. “Yes, and the Children of the Forest before them. But it won’t be as easy as drawing on an ancient title to assert the right to rule.”

That makes Victor smile, settling down in bed next to him and pulling the covers up. “See, you’re learning your way amongst court politics already. We’ll make you a strategist yet.”

“Gods forbid,” Yuuri grumbles, and blows out the light. 

They make love that night. Since Victor healed from his injury, it’s been a slow, sweet journey, getting to know each other in this way. Victor is still learning, but in truth so is Yuuri; how to be with someone beyond just one night, with more than simple pleasure in mind. It’s truly love that they make with their bodies, and each time is like swimming out further into a warm, endless sea, the water closing over both their heads as they travel deeper together.

Yuri leaves for the Stormlands not long after, once the the judicial investigation is complete. The proceedings, led by Lady Regula, aren’t open to the public, though accounts are copied out and dispersed through the city, and during the testimony it’s Yuuri holding Victor’s hand, as they listen to his cousin explain in brusque, halting tones the last days of King Aerys. 

He doesn’t go into great detail about the battle or Aerys’s death, but Yuri’s voice breaks over the words _and so I slit his throat_. He stares out the window as he speaks, expressionless and pale, twisting his hands in his lap. 

“Thank you for your testimony, ser,” Lady Regula says, in her usual cool tones, and then adds, more gently, “The city thanks you for your efforts.”

Yuri only jerks out a nod without looking away from the window, a high, seven-pointed diamond of blue sky. 

After, it's Otabek Baratheon who crosses the chamber to approach Yuri, his face just as stony but with a cautious measure of sympathy in his eyes. He doesn't smile, only puts a hand on Yuri’s back, and Yuri finally lets his head and shoulders drop, golden hair falling forward to curtain his face.

“He’ll be all right,” Victor mutters, and Yuuri thinks he's talking to himself, as though saying it will make it true.

Otabek and Yuri depart the next day, amongst a very small train of guards and retainers. “My father doesn’t have much time left,” Otabek told Victor, in his leave-taking, and the party seems selected for speed. He and Yuri ride at the head of the train, the hoods of their cloaks flung back in the spring sunshine, and Yuuri watches them go, their dark and the light heads both held high. 

He doesn’t envy Yuri the days to come, living in exile, but he does envy him the privacy that’s been afforded to him to work things out. There’s a part of Yuuri that would rather be leaving for a strange new land himself, healing from the invisible wounds of war without a kingdom’s eyes upon him. He has Victor’s love and companionship, but he’s already begun to worry about what else is ahead.

****

Soon enough there are their own preparations to be made for departure. Victor seems to be bringing twice as many belongings as before, although he won’t be at Winterfell for a quarter of the time he was last year. He’s had new clothes made for the wedding, which he won’t show to Yuuri, and he strongly hints that Yuuri should do the same. 

“There won’t be anyone there to impress,” Yuuri protests. 

Victor blinks his eyes. “I’m hurt.”

“Are you marrying me or my clothes,” Yuuri mutters.

Victor comes closer, laying his hands on Yuuri’s shoulders. “I like fine things,” he says, stroking down Yuuri’s chest. “And I’d like to see you in clothes that suit you, as well as your fineness.”

“Maybe I’ll just wear that old swan tabard,” Yuuri jokes, weakly. “You like me in that, yes?”

Victor just smiles. “Very much.” He kisses Yuuri’s forehead, then goes to speak to someone about their provisions.

Yuuri sighs, but he calls in the tailor the next day, with something of an idea at last. It’s a push to get it done in time, but the tailor promises to work without cease. There are some benefits to being the betrothed of the king.

Then they’re off, headed north for what might be the last time in Yuuri’s life.

Maestra Minako rides beside him, as they leave the plains around the capital and enter the river lowlands. She was in the train the last time they traveled through here, when they were at the head of the growing army, not knowing what they’d find before them. It’s strange to reflect on those days, not so long ago, before the war changed everything.

“Are you forward to seeing your family?” Maestra Minako asks him one morning, as they ride away from that night’s inn. Their party isn’t much larger than Otabek’s was, though with considerably more royal guards. 

“Mm,” Yuuri says, nodding. “Of course.”

“We never thought you were back for good, you know,” Maestra Minako says. “Even before Victor arrived. We always knew you had more in you.”

Yuuri doesn’t say anything, riding in silence for a while. “Winterfell is my home.”

The maestra laughs, softly. “How many second sons and daughters stay home? You were supposed to be wed to the Tully boy, before Chenglei and Inez mended their old quarrel and fostered her son at Riverrun. Your mother was happy to let you have a tourney career instead.”

“I suppose that’s over, now,” Yuuri says, staring at the road ahead. It’s a broad, muddy track here, spring floods overflowing their banks.

“Perhaps so,” Maestra Minako says. “But in truth, was there ever really anyone you wanted to face except Victor?”

Yuuri smiles, almost without meaning to. “Stop acting like I need cheering up. I’m marrying the man I’ve wanted since I was twelve years old, and I’m on my way home.”

He feels her appraising look at his last word, and in truth, it feels wrong in his mouth now. He isn’t sure where it will ever feel right. 

“Your mother will have missed you,” is all Maestra Minako says, though, before letting her horse drop behind.

The weeks go by as they travel, and Yuuri feels the significance of this journey. Victor still hasn’t been officially crowned king, and the longer Regula holds his throne the less inclined she might be to give it back, helpful as she’s been in the past weeks. He thinks again about those words, _state wedding_ , and feels the same revulsion as he did before — not just at standing up before the city and a throng of noble guests, but at being someone he doesn’t feel like yet. Someday soon he’ll be Yuuri Targaryen, consort of the king, but for now he feels as though he’s no one and nowhere.

It will all come clearer in the north, he thinks.

The weather grows more chill, as they pass through the Neck and into the deeper forests. At night, Victor sleeps close, in Yuuri’s arms more often than not. Yuuri still can’t quite grow accustomed to this, Victor’s nearness and the intimacy they share. Victor waking him with a gentle kiss pressed to his closed eyes, or curling his hand around the back of Yuuri’s neck as they ride side by side, a brief affectionate caress. When last they travelled this road, heading south, every thought was on the coming battle and strife ahead, war tactics and army maneuvers. Now, instead, they ride to their wedding.

War was perhaps easier to face, Yuuri thinks. 

Still, he wouldn’t trade this time for then. Victor’s hands on him under the blankets, after the candle has been blown out. How Yuuri’s learning Victor’s body, lips tracing the line of his neck and smooth bare shoulders, moving lower. The sweet, giddy way Victor throws himself into lovemaking, smiling one moment and gasping the next, like he can’t get enough. Their camp pallet is scarcely more comfortable than a bedroll, but Yuuri only notices the hard ground much later, when they’re lying sated in each other's arms. 

“This will be a better homecoming than my last,” Yuuri says sleepily, early one morning as the grey dawn light steals into their pavilion.

“Yes?” Victor murmurs. He’s lying on his stomach, head pillowed on one arm, the other resting across Yuuri’s chest. The air is beginning to feel cool on Yuuri’s bare skin, but he doesn’t want to pull the blankets up over them just yet. It seems he’ll never tire of running his gaze over Victor’s fine form, or of the way Victor lets him, smiling.

“I was in disgrace then, or close to it,” Yuuri says. “No tourney honors behind me, and nothing ahead of me either. I fairly slunk home, tail between my legs.”

“I can’t imagine you slinking,” Victor says, smiling, and reaches up to stroke Yuuri’s cheek. “And I’m sure your family was glad to see you, after so long away.”

“Yes,” sighs Yuuri. “But I’d hoped to return in a way that brought honor to our name. And now…” He pauses, delicately.

Victor smiles more broadly. “And now you’re returning with the king as your betrothed.”

“Well, yes,” Yuuri says, feeling the blush come into his face. “I don’t want you to think — I would never — ”

“You aren’t marrying me just for my title?” Victor asks, teasing. “Or to impress your family?”

“I’d marry you if you were a blacksmith,” Yuuri says, seriously. “Well, a blacksmith with an unnatural skill at the broadsword.”

“Ah, so there’s the truth,” Victor says, moving in closer to nuzzle at Yuuri’s chin. “You’re just dazzled by my _sword_.”

He tilts his head and nips at Yuuri’s throat, and Yuuri can’t help laughing at the brush of Victor’s stubble where his skin is tender. Victor finds the underside of his jaw, tickling him again, and Yuuri tries to push him away only to find Victor’s mouth pressed to his, ending the conversation for now as they lose themselves in a breathless, murmuring kiss.

The journey is almost at its end when the messenger appears, galloping down the hill before them. Kenjirou is riding near the front, his injured leg sticking out of the stirrups at the odd angle it always will, and he hails the rider first, clearly recognizing him.

When the man draws closer Yuuri recognizes him too; one of his mother’s couriers. His chest squeezes tight, heart beating faster, and he wonders what purpose carried the rider south. _Only ill news moves so swiftly_ , he thinks.

“Ser Yuuri!” the messenger calls out, coming closer.

Yuuri clears his throat. “Here!”

The man pulls up short on the reins before him, smoothing his sweaty, tangled dark hair. The horse is in a lather, like they’ve ridden hard. “Your sister sent me with a message. For you, and for the king.” He glances at Victor, as his horse shifts beneath him.

“Speak,” Victor says, impatiently.

“Your hunting dog has been taken ill,” the messenger says, apologetically. “I believe she ate something she shouldn’t have, a bone or some such. Lady Mari knows you think very highly of your hound, and bids you ride quickly north.”

“Oh no,” Yuuri says, softly.

“Yuuri — ” Victor says.

“You must leave at once,” Yuuri says. “Take a light guard with you. Winterfell is scarcely more than a day’s ride, if you go faster than the pace of our baggage. You’d never forgive yourself otherwise.”

Victor looks at him, clear eyes open wide. “I can’t leave you to finish the journey alone. You wanted a better homecoming than that.”

Yuuri shakes his head, impatiently. Painful memories of Vicchan tug at him; the message that arrived too late, the statue in the family crypt. “I won’t be alone. You’ll be waiting there for me. Please, you have to go now.”

“Yuuri — ”

“ _Please_ ,” Yuuri repeats, reaching out to put his hand over Victor’s on the reins of his horse. “Makkachin needs you more than I do today.”

Victor nods at last. “All right,” he says. He takes off his glove and puts his own hand on Yuuri’s cheek, his fingers cool with the northern air. “I’ll see you at home.”

Yuuri watches him ride off a few minutes later, two attendants in tow and only the most necessary baggage on their saddle rolls. Victor gallops up the hill at the head, scarcely waiting for the guards on either side of him, and disappears over a ridge, into the forest.

“He’s a good rider,” Maestra Minako says, from behind him. “A good seat, and a fast pace.”

“Yes,” Yuuri says, still watching the place where Victor disappeared from sight. “Let’s hope it’s fast enough.”

*****

The pavilion feels enormous that night, cold and empty. Yuuri curls up under the blankets and thinks of Victor, who must be alone in a much smaller tent than this somewhere to the north. He’s glad Victor went, but it’s strange to think they haven’t been parted for a single night in months. Yuuri’s spent so much of his life dreaming of Victor, and now Victor is the true center of Yuuri’s life, in a quiet, solid, unexamined way. So much has changed in just a year.

Yuuri is anxious and silent the next morning, riding at the rear of the party near the slow-moving, creaky-wheeled wagon. It’s filled to the brim with trunks, mostly Victor’s things, and Yuuri has a moment of sour kinship with them, feeling like left-behind baggage. But no; he told Victor to go, and the situation is serious. He’ll just have to struggle on here, through a less-glorious homecoming than the one he’s been secretly dreaming of. In the king’s train, if not with the king himself, and Victor waiting for him ahead, hopefully bearing good news.

_I’ll see you at home._

They make camp one more night, beneath the dripping eaves of the forest, and the next day brings them to the final rise before the valley opens below, the sprawling grey towers of Winterfell cradled within. Yuuri pauses for a moment at the top of the hill, gazing down as he did so many months ago. 

That morning felt just as uncertain as this one does, but he has to remind himself of everything that’s changed. He’s no longer a struggling tourney knight, reeling from his latest defeats, on the run from his past and uncertain of his future or his place in the world. He’s the champion of Harrenhal, and he’s won a war and killed at least two men in the service of his king. More than that, he’s found his place, unexpected as it is, by Victor’s side. 

His future is as rosy as can be imagined, and yet Yuuri feels somehow unsettled. War was nothing like he expected, and neither was his tourney victory. Being Victor’s lover has been pure joy in private, and afforded him an awkward, grudging consequence in public life, where he’s somehow always in the way but no one can say it aloud. Being Victor’s consort is sure to bring a host of fresh difficulties and uncertainties, first and not least of all, a coronation when they return.

And all through their journey north, Victor has kept looking at that strange carved wooden box that Ser Yakov brought. 

Beneath Yuuri, his horse shifts, perhaps sensing his uneasy thoughts. The rest of the party is descending the hill, and the animal is anxious to follow. Yuuri twitches the reins, and they begin the final ride home.

He doesn’t know why Victor brought the dragon eggs north. He's only seen them once, when Victor left the box open for a minute as he rummaged in his closet, and while they're beautiful he doesn't understand the fascination Victor clearly seems to feel. The colors are still bright, centuries later, but Yuuri knows they're only cold stone now, long since fossilized. Surely they'd keep just as well in the treasury, where they belong.

Perhaps it's because they were Victor’s father’s, Yuuri thinks, as he rejoins the party. They haven't really spoken of Aerys or his death, not since the night Victor finally awoke after the battle. Yuuri could hear in Victor’s voice then, the pain he felt thinking of his father, but Yuuri didn’t press and Victor didn’t go further, worrying about his cousin instead. Yuuri wonders what Victor truly feels, or if he’s let himself think about it at all.

By late afternoon they’re drawing within sight of the castle walls. Though he’s been away a much shorter time, Yuuri feels even more emotion than he did on his last homecoming. Perhaps because he knows, in his heart, that this will truly be his last one.

The sentry has already opened the gates as they approach. Yuuri looks up, but he doesn’t recognize the young man; already things are changing beyond his control, after scarcely half a year away. Someday it will be his sister who rules here, and then her children — 

— _and one of them will rule Westeros itself someday_ , he thinks to himself, remembering Victor’s words with a sudden chill.

He doesn’t have any time to ruminate further, though, because his family is all in the courtyard, his parents beaming and even Mari with a small, satisfied smile.

“Yuuri-chan!” his mother calls. “Welcome home again!”

Yuuri dismounts, sliding from his saddle with a broad smile he can’t help. He’s enfolded in his mother’s arms immediately, and then the rest of his family, all of them clinging to each other. He realizes for the first time that they’ve had to wait for news of war from afar, everything carried to them by rider or raven, and what fear they must have felt. He only hopes that they didn’t know about the siege on King’s Landing until it was all over.

He pulls back at last, looking at his parents and sister in turn. 

“How is — ” he starts to ask.

“Makkachin is fine,” his mother breaks in. 

“It was a near thing,” Mari adds. “She was lucky.”

Yuuri smiles, exhaling, feeling the enormous strain lifting at last. “And Victor?”

Now his father grins. “Still asleep by her side, I believe. We never thought to host the king of Westeros within these walls.”

“We never thought we’d have the crown prince either,” Mari says, rolling her eyes a little. “And he was here for six months.”

“But I always hoped we’d have a wedding,” his mother says, and scrunches up her eyes in a smile. “We’ve been preparing for the banquet ever since your letter. I want to show you…”

“Later?” Yuuri asks, as he breaks out into a yawn. It isn’t that late yet, but the sun is starting to dip towards the horizon and it seems like all the weeks of journeying are coming down on him at once, especially the last few anxious days. 

“Of course, you need to rest,” his father says, squeezing his shoulder. “We’ll talk later, about the war and your wedding. For now, I know just the place.”

Yuuri follows his father through the familiar grey halls, kept warm by the hot spring waters running through the stone walls and beneath the floors, and up the wide, worn wooden staircase in the hall, everything seeming at once shabby and precious in comparison with the grander places he’s seen in the south. He’ll spend the rest of his life in the splendor of the Red Keep, but for now all he wants is the plain, austere walls of his childhood home. 

His father turns at the head of the stairs. Not towards the guest suites, where Victor slept last time, but to the family wing, stopping in front of Yuuri’s own room.

“It was a difficult night for him,” Yuuri’s father says, looking down at him. “But in the morning it seemed she was going to make it. He called a servant for breakfast, but by the time it arrived he was already asleep.” He smiles. “Victor stayed awake with her all night. He didn't want anyone else taking care of her. It was good to see.”

Yuuri smiles too, imagining it. “I wouldn't have expected anything else.”

“You chose well,” his father says. “I feel as though I've been hearing you speak of Victor Targaryen for so many years that it's only natural he should end up my son in law, king or not.”

Now Yuuri grins, a little ruefully.

“Go to him,” his father says. “It's almost the supper hour, time for him to wake up. King or not.”

Yuuri opens the door to his old bedroom slowly. So much has changed since he was in here last, but nothing at all is different about the room. The same faded hangings and comfortable rugs, some old books on the shelves and even older playthings in the corner. The window overlooking the godswood, through which he used to gaze as a child, thinking of the great Wall to the north and the unknown wilderness beyond, and later, dreaming different dreams as a youth and a young man.

The bed is the same too, a simple wooden four poster piled high with quilts and furs, and in the center, Victor sleeps curled up with Makkachin in his arms.

Despite the chill in the room, he’s stripped down to just trousers and a linen shirt, his narrow feet bare. The loose shirt falls away in back, revealing his long neck and a hint of his back, and his silky hair falls over his brow, grown out from the choppy sword cut he gave it months ago. Victor stirs in his sleep, sighing, but doesn’t open his eyes.

Yuuri just looks, holding his breath. This isn’t the first time Victor’s been in his home but it’s the first time he’s been in Yuuri’s own bed, and the sudden, solid reality of it pierces through Yuuri. They aren’t in Harrenhal, or a soldier’s tent, or even couched in the luxury of the Red Keep, where the king’s bedchambers remain shut up. They’re here, in the plain, humble comforts of Winterfell, warmed by the earth’s waters and kept safe by rough stone, in this place where Yuuri’s life began before his path turned another way.

He must make a noise, exhaling, or else Victor just senses he’s there, because Victor’s eyes open, blinking once, twice, heavy lashes fluttering. He yawns, stretching his shoulders, and his arm goes tighter around the sleeping Makkachin, gazing down with tender fondness, before looking up at Yuuri.

Victor smiles. Sweet, slow, satisfied; all the love Yuuri’s dreamed of but never expected to find. He lifts up, propping his head on his hand.

“Welcome home,” Victor says.

In the end, they’re late for dinner. Yuuri lies down behind Victor, reaching over to push his hand into Makkachin’s soft fur, kissing the back of Victor’s neck as he was longing to do. Victor sighs, pleased.

“I’m so glad she’s all right,” Yuuri murmurs. “You arrived here quickly?”

“After nightfall,” Victor says. “I don’t think they expected me so late. But your family was wonderful. Not everyone would have taken such care with an animal.”

Yuuri bites his lip, stroking Makkachin’s fur. “They know how much she means to you.”

“Of course,” Victor says. “And your journey? Was your homecoming…?”

“Perfect,” Yuuri says, firmly. He doesn’t want to talk about his vague, nebulous concerns about their future, or the box of strange fossilized eggs still in the baggage cart. “Except my mother wanted to talk about wedding plans.”

Victor laughs softly. “Tell her to talk to me.”

“I’m sure you both have enough ideas for ten weddings,” Yuuri says. “But I thought we came here for a simple northern ceremony.”

“Among other reasons,” Victor says, wryly. He works his hand beneath Yuuri’s on Makkachin’s fur, lifting it up to his mouth and brushing his lips over Yuuri’s knuckles. “I wanted to please you, you know.”

A shiver goes through Yuuri, and he buries his face against the back of Victor’s head, his arm going around Victor’s chest to hold him tight. “You did,” Yuuri mutters. “You always take care of me.”

“Says the man who’s saved my life at least twice,” Victor says. He laughs, but it turns into a yawn. “Is supper very soon? I can’t even guess what hour it is.”

“I’m sure no one will mind if we rest a while longer,” Yuuri says, yawning himself now. “I’m the returning son, and you’re the king.”

“True,” Victor says, and yawns even more widely. “I’ll issue an edict.”

Yuuri snorts, and then settles down to sleep, with Victor in his arms. 

When he opens his eyes again, the room is dark and Makkachin is snuffling happily in his face, warm and wet. He makes a face, half grimace and half smile, and reaches up to pet her head and push her away, sitting up. Victor is snoring lightly, and Yuuri jostles his shoulder.

“Ah, Victor,” he says. “I think we might have missed supper.”

Yuuri lights a pair of tapers, and they get ready by candlelight. He wishes there were time for him to bathe, washing away the road dust, but he feels guilty enough as it is, and settles for a change of clothes from his old wardrobe, the shirt and pants smelling of cedar after months of disuse. Victor pulls a leather doublet over his linen shirt and runs his fingers through his hair, shaking it out of his face.

“Kingly enough?” he asks Yuuri, quirking a smile.

Yuuri smiles back. “It’s a good thing everyone in the castle already knows you.”

They go out into the corridor to discover Kenjirou, dozing in a chair. He startles awake as soon as they shut the door, his hand flying to the sword on his lap.

“Good sers!” he says. “Er, Your Highness. Dinner in the banquet hall is over, but if you’ll step into Lady Hiroko’s solar…” He scrunches up his face, looking like he’s forgotten the rest of his speech.

“Thank you,” Yuuri says, gently. “You should go to bed, you needn’t have sat up so late for us.”

“Back on household guard duty?” Victor asks.

A pained look crosses Kenjirou’s face. “It’s being discussed. In the meantime, I said you needed someone to keep watch at your door. It’s not right, coming all this way without even appointing a new Kingsguard.”

Victor smiles. “Well, I’m certainly accepting advice on the subject. If you have anyone in mind…”

Now Kenjirou blushes, and squints up as though he isn’t sure whether or not Victor is making fun of him. “I have some ideas,” he says, puffing up a little. 

“Tell me in the morning,” Victor says, and turns to Yuuri. “For now — your mother’s solar?Perhaps there’s food there.”

They do find a spread laid out for them in the small, cheerful room, well-lit with hanging candles but empty of any people. Yuuri takes a plate of cold meat while Victor cuts up bread for them, and they take it back to his room for a midnight supper, where Makkachin is eager to eat as well. Victor reclines on the bed, alternating between feeding her and himself tidbits of meat, and Yuuri curls up in the chair at the desk, beneath the darkened window. 

It strikes him that Victor’s hardly ever been in his room before, and never as intimately as this. He can see the few belongings Victor took during his hasty departure scattered around the room, clothing and boots, and Victor and Makkachin look comfortable together in his bed, reunited at last. Yuuri feels comfort stealing through him as well, finally back home again where he’s longed to be, the pleasure bittersweet because of how soon it will be over.

He turns to the window, where the night watch is calling out the hour. 

“Yuuri,” Victor says, softly. “You’re not eating.”

Yuuri sighs. “I’m tired,” he says. “And not as hungry as I thought.”

“Should I feed you like Makkachin?” Victor asks, a touch of humor in his voice.

Yuuri turns to look at him. Victor’s eyes are fond and sleepy, beneath the silver fringe of hair, and the way he’s lying back against the pillows, Makkachin tucked beneath one arm with her head on his chest, entices Yuuri as much as it makes him catch his breath. After all this time, Victor still has that air about him, beautiful and distant, the aura of royalty and renown. 

Then he smiles, and he’s Yuuri’s again.

“Come here,” Victor says, and Yuuri does.

They fall asleep that way, the three of them, with a single taper still burning on the desk. Yuuri feels Victor’s warmth, holding off the chill of the night, and for now it’s all he needs.

*****

The next week is the sweetest and most peaceful Yuuri’s had in some time. Late mornings in bed, wrapped in each other's arms, Makkachin settled against their feet. Breakfast in the great hall with his family, and then a few hours to exercise and train, keeping himself fit the way he did even during their time in the Red Keep, when the war was over. He let his form go once, and he doesn’t want to have to earn it again.

Then lunch, and time spent reading or walking in the godswood or riding in the lowlands around the castle. They bathe in the springs after, and Yuuri feels like he could stay here forever, letting the deep heat soak into his body, beneath the silence of the grey sentinel trees. Victor seems to feel the same way too, the usual flow of conversation ebbing as they relax together, taking in the comfort of the water.

He lets Victor and his mother plan the wedding. Yuuri asks only that it be simple, and they assure him it will be, with looks he mistrusts. Everything seems ideal, until the evening Victor mentions his future plans for the throne.

They’re with his family in his mother’s solar, the work of the day mostly done, though Lady Hiroko is going over accounts with Kenjirou’s father. The rest of them linger over sweet wine and cakes, listening to Victor talk about Targaryen history, Yuuri half dozing and his father openly so. Then Victor says, idly, “And of course, all that will be over with the Stark reversion.”

“What,” Mari says, evenly.

Yuuri sits up straighter, his gaze flicking back from where he’s been staring at the fireplace. Victor had been going over some of the least pleasant aspects of the bloody history of his family, and he wasn’t paying close attention, but now he feels wide awake. “Oh,” he says, stupidly. “Er, Victor. You should probably tell her…”

“Tell her what?” Mari asks, in that same flat tone.

“Well,” Victor says, and tips his head to lean on his hand in his most charming manner, his hair falling over one eye. Mari doesn’t look charmed. “You know my family were conquerors here, with no right to Westeros except what was claimed in battle. Since Yuuri and I won’t have any natural heirs, I’d like the throne to revert to the original people of Westeros.”

He smiles, winningly. 

“How do you propose to do that?” Mari asks. Her brows are lowered, her mouth a tight line.

“As I’m marrying a Stark, it only makes sense to set the succession through his line, rather than mine.”

“Don’t you have cousins?” Mari asks, sharpness coming into her voice. “And a younger brother?” 

“Well, his location is unknown at the present time,” Victor says, looking rather discomfited now. “And our cousins bear the same tainted blood as we do. I told you, I want to end the history of Targaryen rulers in this land, running mad and lawless over its people.”

“By forcing one of my children to sit the Iron Throne,” Mari says, cutting. “Has it ever occurred to you that perhaps it was the weight of the crown itself that drove your forebears mad, and not some taint in your blood?”

Victor just stares at her, his mouth hanging open.

Mari pushes her chair back and stands up. “Excuse me. I think I’m retiring for the night.” 

She walks to the door, head held high, and then turns just before she reaches it, opening her mouth to speak again. 

“I will never consent to being in the line of royal succession, simply because you’ve decided to change its course on a whim,” she says, her voice high and clear. “If you want things to be as they were before your people came, give up the throne of Westeros and let the great houses govern their own again. We’ll fall into infighting and strife once more, but it’s better than having some future despot control our fates. Good night.”

There’s a long silence after she leaves, broken only by the crackling of the fire. Yuuri stares at his father, fully awake now, and then looks to his mother, frowning over her accounts. He knows she heard, though, and she sighs and sets down a sheaf of papers.

“Mari doesn’t care for surprises, Vicchan,” she says, mildly. “She generally knows her own way.”

“Good night,” Victor says, abruptly. Yuuri turns his head to see him getting up from the table too, his chair scraping against the floor as his wine goblet rattles against his plate. Victor is looking down, hair falling across his eyes, but Yuuri can tell he’s pale and shaken as he leaves the room. 

Yuuri’s got one hand on the table, ready to rise himself, when his father makes a soft sound. “Let them both go,” he says. “They both have much to consider. How does a game of cyvasse sound? Or more wine?”

They have both, warming and distracting on the chilly evening, but Yuuri still has that deep, churning worry in his stomach when he finally bids his parents goodnight. Out in the corridor he hesitates, unsure of whether he should speak to Victor or his sister first, but he then recalls both their faces. It’s Victor who needs him now. 

The room is still bright when Yuuri enters. Victor’s in bed with a book, his knees drawn up and Makkachin by his feet. It’s how they’ve spent so many evenings together, and as Yuuri undresses, he’s filled with a longing to lie down silently on Victor’s other side, put his head on Victor’s chest, and fall asleep without any further discussion. The affairs of the kingdom and the throne are still Victor’s, and Yuuri always feels like a stumbling child, taking his first steps into this confusing new world. 

He does curl up next to Victor, who lifts an arm to let him lie in the curve of it, head resting on Victor’s shoulder. Yuuri sighs, getting more comfortable, listening to the rustle of parchment as Victor turns the page of the book and Makkachin’s soft, snuffling breath at the end of the bed.

“You should have waited,” Yuuri says, finally.

Victor doesn’t answer for a moment. “Do you think that would have made a difference?”

He thinks of his sister’s words, dropped like pebbles into a still, cold pond. “Perhaps not.”

Victor turns another page. “I misjudged.”

“Misjudged what?”

Now Victor pauses, staring into the distance, before laying his book down against his lap. “The power of family pride.”

Yuuri frowns. “You think she refused because of that?”

“I had forgotten that the great houses have such deep roots,” Victor says with a sigh. “Of course she’d put loyalty to House Stark above a throne.”

“That’s not it,” Yuuri says, and struggles upright. Victor turns to look at him. “It’s not that she wants her children to remain Starks. That’s not likely to happen anyway, if any of them marry into other houses like our father did. You heard what Mari said. She’d rather there be no ruler of Westeros all all, rather than the succession being altered on a whim.”

“It’s not a _whim_ ,” Victor says, drawing himself up straighter, his shoulders going back. “I told you, I want to set the line through your house.”

“And who’s to stop some future Stark ruler from altering it again?” Yuuri returns. “Or someone else entirely new stepping in to seize power? Once you break the line of natural heirs, where does the right to rule come from? The land will devolve to civil war, where might becomes the only justification.”

Victor just stares, as all the things Yuuri’s been thinking of for the past hour come spilling out. He didn’t need to speak with Mari, he realizes, to make her arguments for her. She was right, and Victor was wrong, but for reasons that go so much deeper than mere whim.

“I know you’re afraid,” Yuuri says, quietly. “About your brother, and your mother, and what your cousins might do. I know you don’t want to think of your father’s mistakes being repeated, or make them yourself. But if you give away power, you lose all control over it. Wouldn’t you rather be the king who brought the Targaryens to new glory, instead of the one who ended it?”

Victor keeps staring at him, and then closes his eyes at last, with a long sigh. When he opens them again, in their blue depths Yuuri can see all the pain and struggle he’s feeling. He reaches out, curling his hand around the side of Yuuri’s neck.

“I’m not worried about becoming my father, as long as you’re with me,” Victor says, his voice hoarse. “But what about the rulers who come after?”

Yuuri reaches up and lays his own hand over Victor’s, warmer than Victor’s cool fingers. “You can’t hold the reins of the future forever,” he says, softly. “You can only do the best you can, and have faith. Their errors won’t be on your head.”

“But if I had the means to extinguish the line and I didn’t…”

“Victor,” Yuuri says, seriously. “There are Targaryens aplenty, still. You can’t extinguish anything, unless you mean to do something…drastic.”

Victor shakes his head, hard. “No. Never.”

“Then you have no choice but to be king,” Yuuri says, more lightly. “And to choose a successor from amongst your relations. Perhaps we’ll find your brother, and perhaps he’ll have children himself one day.” Yuuri pauses. “I’m only sorry I can’t give you an heir. That would make the situation easier.”

Victor laughs, shaking his head. “I think that would introduce an entirely new set of problems.”

He looks more relaxed now, the corners of his eyes going up and his shoulders dropping, but there’s still a hint of pain in his eyes, and on impulse Yuuri leans in, taking Victor’s face in his hands. 

“You’ve never had time to grieve your father, have you?” Yuuri asks, softly. “Not his death, nor — the man he was, before.”

Victor’s eyes go wide now, his body very still. “I hardly remember that man. It seems he was always as you saw.”

“The death of hope, then,” Yuuri says. “I know you wanted to reconcile. You didn’t want things to end this way.”

Victor shuts his eyes. “No.”

“And now you’re left with a bigger tangle than before,” Yuuri says, realizing. “You can’t just take up your sword or your harp and escape it all.”

Victor looks at him again, and there’s only warmth in his eyes now. “Well,” he says, lifting one corner of his mouth in a smile. “I _can_ take my betrothed and escape as far north as the borders of Westeros will allow.”

“We’re nowhere near the Wall,” Yuuri protests, but they’re both smiling, Victor leans in to kiss him.

They undress by candlelight. Yuuri’s been with lovers in darkness and in daylight before, but somehow this always feels right, the two of them lit by a soft glow, alone together. It makes their world seem small and intimate, a space for only them, bounded by the stone walls of a chamber or the canvas of a pavilion. By day, Victor has to give so much to the world around them, and Yuuri has to be someone else as well, but here they belong only to each other.

Tonight he ends up above Victor, rocking down onto him, like their very first time. Victor’s hair is short now, instead of spreading against the pillow, and the walls are the rough grey of Winterfell instead of the wooden paneling that hides the blackened stones of Harrenhal, but the look in Victor’s eyes hasn’t changed since then. He keeps hold of Yuuri’s hips, pulling him down, and beneath Yuuri’s braced hands his chest rises and falls quickly as he stares up, lips parted, entranced.

“Yuuri,” he murmurs. “How did I live without you.”

Some night, long before, Yuuri would have had a short, caustic answer, brushing the words aside in discomfort. Now he leans forward, arching his back as he keeps moving his hips, bringing his face close to Victor’s. 

“It doesn’t matter,” Yuuri whispers. “We’re here now.”

With a sudden effort Victor lifts his head, capturing Yuuri’s mouth in a hard, hungry kiss. He shifts his hands to cradle Yuuri’s face, kissing him with gasping, biting pulls, holding him close. Yuuri goes faster, working Victor over with his body, and Victor whimpers against Yuuri’s mouth, drawing up his knees for more leverage as he rocks up. He doesn’t usually finish first, but tonight he does, his teeth on Yuuri’s lower lip, groaning as Yuuri grinds down hard against him.

After, Victor rolls them to lie on their sides and moves down the bed, using his mouth in another way. Yuuri pants, curling up around Victor, one hand pushing into his silky fringe. This is still new for them. Victor goes sliding and slow, looking up often, beneath his silver brows. He seems to take so much pleasure in it, and Yuuri tingles all over, feeling him this loving and close. 

“Victor,” Yuuri sighs. Victor hums, his mouth full, one hand caressing over the small of Yuuri’s back. 

The pleasure catches, growing. Yuuri holds Victor’s head and keeps him there, rocking into his mouth as much as he can, lying on his side. Victor moans, working harder; tongue flicking against Yuuri and fingers tightening on his hip. His mouth is tight and sweet, perfect, and Yuuri can't stop pushing inside, taking what Victor gives. He thinks Victor wants it like this too, the way he’s breathing fast, letting it happen.

“Oh,” Yuuri gasps, sharp now. Victor’s so steady, his mouth so warm, and Yuuri shuts his eyes, clenching his jaw, his heart racing as it builds. “I’m — it’s close,” he murmurs.

Victor doesn’t move away. It shocked Yuuri, the first time he didn’t, and Victor seemed stunned too, when he finally pulled off and looked up at Yuuri, eyes huge and his mouth so soft and wet. Now, though, Victor gets even closer, moving his head to meet Yuuri’s rocking hips, until Yuuri lets out a stuttering cry, ecstasy pulsing through him as he clutches Victor’s hair.

Victor moves up, gathering Yuuri against him, still breathing hard. Yuuri rests his face on Victor’s chest, head tucked under his chin, and Victor strokes his hair, gently. 

“You keep surprising me,” Victor says, his voice husky. “I think I know you, and then…”

He laughs, softly, and Yuuri thrills to hear the delight in Victor’s voice, pleased and wondering. At the same time, a darker, sobering thought takes him, and he catches his breath for a moment. _Say it_ , he tells himself.

“What happens when I stop surprising you?” Yuuri asks, low.

Victor’s silent, his stroking hand going still on Yuuri’s head, before pulling him even closer. “We’ll be old and grey, I hope,” he says at last. “But I won’t love you any less.”

Yuuri lets out a shaky breath, and then reaches up to curl his hand around the back of Victor’s neck, tight. “I love you.”

He’s still getting used to saying it above a whisper, and he’ll never say it as lightly as Victor does. But he thinks Victor knows how much it means, because he just kisses the top of Yuuri’s head, still holding him close, and Yuuri feels the trembling sigh that goes through him. They drift off together, in the circle of candlelight, the darkness held at bay for now.


	14. Fourteen - Yuuri & Victor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s unbelievable to me that this the last chapter of this story. It’s much longer than I originally envisioned it and covers much more ground, and I’m so grateful to everyone who’s been reading along and encouraging and making small excellent suggestions that helped shape the direction it went. This has been a fantastic experience for me as a writer, even as it slowed down near the end, and I’m happy I made the journey.
> 
> Thanks again to someitems, who’s talked through much of this story and read over each chapter before posting, and shdwsilk, who did more detailed beta on the parts that needed it. Your encouragement and cheerleading has meant worlds. And thanks also to lodessa, who suggested the ending of this story way back when I was writing chapter six and needed a final touch to the story’s outline. It’s been fun writing with this end in mind.

It snows on the day of their wedding.They wake up to a world of white, piled up in the courtyard and dusting the tops of the sentinel trees in the godswood beyond, and Yuuri laughs at the surprised dismay on Victor’s face. 

“It’s the way of the north,” Yuuri says, brushing Victor’s hair back from his face. “Three false springs before winter ends, and even then you never know, with snow. There’s always a little winter lurking around the corner.”

Victor turns back from the window, burying his face in the curve of Yuuri’s neck and pulling the sheets over them both as he kisses up to Yuuri’s ear. “I just hope these wedding clothes you’ve kept such a secret are suitable for the cold.”

They are, though he knows Victor’s won’t be. Hiroko saves the day, producing an old cloak trimmed with white fox fur, cut off and sewn to Victor’s shirt cuffs and tucked into his lace collar. With a quilted vest beneath his gold-stitched, sapphire-studded grey silk doublet, and extra socks tucked into his polished black boots, Victor’s attire is better fitted to the weather, though he still looks wistfully out the window again at the mounded drifts. 

“It’s a pity we can’t have the ceremony inside the chapel of the Seven,” Victor says, lifting the curtain. “But we journeyed all the way north so you could stand in your own godswood, I suppose.” 

“Hardly anyone except my father ever sets foot in the sept,” Yuuri says, with a laugh. “And it hadn’t been used in several generations before he married my mother. It’s small and dusty, and the light is terrible.”

“Well, then,” Victor says, letting the curtain drop and turning around. “Let’s hope the sun comes out, at least.” He leans in, pressing a kiss to Yuuri’s mouth. “Shouldn’t you be getting dressed?”

“Go and find my mother again,” Yuuri says, kissing him back. “I’m certain you still have plans to discuss. I’ll meet you below, it’s time.”

Victor kisses him once more, and then goes. 

For just a little while, Yuuri stands where he is, reeling. It’s the same feeling as he had in the courtyard of the Red Keep, with Blount’s body at his feet and Victor bleeding out behind him, disconnected in time and space. He’s home now, but home has changed, and he’s changed, and very soon nothing will ever be the same again. Yuuri will descend the familiar winding staircase and cross the well-known courtyard, entering the godswood where he hoped and dreamed so often in his boyhood, and when he leaves it he’ll belong to Victor and the south, far away.

Victor will belong to him too, he thinks, wondering. And perhaps he’ll belong to the north, just a little. This will always be home for them; the place where everything began.

Yuuri begins to dress himself. Down in the Dornish palace, even a fostered second son had a valet, and he knows it will be so in King’s Landing, unless he stands his ground. But he grew up here, in the austere north, where a lady’s son still dressed himself, and so it will be on the morning of his wedding. 

Layers of warm undershirts, the ones he ordered knowing the vagaries of early northern spring, and then the creamy linen shirt he allowed the tailor to choose, decadent as it feels with its soft, full, gathered sleeves, and the slightly ruffled standing collar above the leather-laced neck. He slips on his white silk doublet next, beautifully embroidered in silver thread, much finer than anything he’s ever worn before but chosen in hopes of seeing the look on Victor’s face. White, fur-lined gloves too, and soft black deerskin trousers, with a white woolen cloak trimmed in down, and finally Yuuri faces the bronze mirror and combs his hair back from his face. 

He feels — not exactly unlike himself, but like a version of himself he’s yet to become, a hopeful future Yuuri who can face the day with his head held high. This takes more bravery than entering a tourney ring ever has.

Yuuri pauses just a moment more, his eye falling on the carved wooden box at Victor’s bedside, under the window. It’s been shut ever since the servants brought it upstairs with the rest of their luggage, but Yuuri finds himself drawn to the golden latch, tracing the chased curves of it before slipping beneath to flip it open.

There’s no reason for his breath to catch in his chest, as though he were doing something wrong. Victor’s left this box unlocked and in plain sight for weeks. Yuuri doesn’t even want to take out the contents out of it, only to look at them once more.

He lifts the lid carefully, letting out a slow breath at the sight of the dragon eggs, nestled in deep purple velvet. They’re even more beautiful than he remembered. The colors are deep and vivid — crimson, emerald, and sable — and they’re patterned in shining metallic swirls, sweeping over the enormous curved shells. It’s hard to believe these weren’t forged by some jewelsmith, using the long-lost arts of the east, from whence Victor’s people fled after the Doom befell old Valyria.

Yuuri reaches out, drawn to the black egg on the right. It’s the color of the night sky above the forest, and the silver patterns stand out even more, in bright stars and sprays across the surface. He holds his breath again as he touches the shell with the very tip of its finger, feeling like he’s under a spell.

The egg is warmer than he thought; warmer even than the air around him, or the blood in his body. Like there’s something inside, emanating heat after so many centuries of being stone. Something alive.

Yuuri shakes his head, frowning, and the spell is snapped. He withdraws his hand, rubbing it against the leg of his trousers and biting his lip, feeling foolish. There’s a sudden motion outside the window in the courtyard below, Victor at the head of a procession walking towards the godswood, and Yuuri reaches to close the box hastily, flipping the latch shut.

Outside his father is waiting for him, while Mari lounges against the wall nearby. She turns her head when Yuuri comes out, raising her eyebrows. 

“You look — elegant,” she says. “And warm. Father had to loan Victor a dress cloak, all he had was a traveling one. ”

 _I’m sorry, I spoke rashly_ , Victor said, the morning after their quarrel, and Mari nodded and looked away. It was as close as they could come to reconciling, the king and the heir to Winterfell, but it was a start. Victor hasn’t talked about the line of succession again, and Yuuri wonders what he’s thinking now, but he knows better than to ask. There are still so many questions about their future, and none of them can be answered just yet.

Mari leans away from the wall, coming to embrace Yuuri, arms open wide. “Little brother,” she says, softly. “I confess, I wasn’t always certain about the path you’ve chosen. But you’ve made us all proud.”

“Why, because I managed to ensnare the king?” Yuuri asks, his mouth twisting wryly.

“And won a great tourney, and a war,” Mari says, and pulls back to look at him. “The time is past for modesty, brother. Today you step onto the stage of Westeros, and you’ve proven that you belong there.”

Yuuri just catches his breath, looking at his sister. He thinks of their childhood together — chasing after her, being teased or carried, watching her grow into the powerful woman she’s become — and for the first time he doesn’t feel like the slow, backwards little brother he once was, or the boy with a head full of silly dreams. He sees himself through her eyes, an accomplished knight with a royal husband to be waiting downstairs, and it’s startling, stunning to see the change.

Mari just smiles at him. “Don’t go getting full of yourself,” she says. “The idea of you and Victor ruling the kingdom together is still absurd, but I suppose you won’t make more of a mess of it than anyone else would.”

She links her arm through his, and they turn to face their father, who’s smiling down at them both. 

“And I must confess, I only lent the king my second-best dress cloak,” Toshio says, lowering his voice. “It matched his wedding clothes better. Do you think anyone will notice?”

The three of them laugh, and then they descend the stairs together.

*****

The skies are clear and cold when they come out into the courtyard, a brittle crystalline cold that feels like it could crack or cut. It’s quiet out here, with the usual busy work of the keep silenced now that the smallfolk are all in the godswood, awaiting his arrival. Yuuri walks through the arch of sentinel trees between his father and his sister, remembering that day last year when he saw a dog’s silhouette here, a figure out of memory that threw his life into immediate upheaval. Everything is unimaginably different since then. 

They walk deeper into the grove, approaching the red-barked heart tree that spreads its branches over the hot spring. Yuuri remembers, too, the night he kept vigil here with Yuri, resting on aching knees all through the chilly darkness waiting for the sunrise, when Victor came. So much has happened here, and now the greatest change of all lies ahead.

Victor is waiting for him now beneath the heart tree, wearing Yuuri’s father’s second-best dress cloak. The black fur gleams in the morning sun and on Victor’s silver hair, and when Victor turns around Yuuri can’t see anything else but him.

Yuuri’s mother appears besides him, taking his elbow and walking down the path with him. There’s a small crowd gathered, like the day he sparred with Yuri in the yard in his desperate fight to keep Victor, and he catches glimpses of their faces as he walks. Yuuko, smiling, and the girls beside her, with Takeshi’s honest grin just beyond. His old nan, who read him endless stories of knights and glory as a child, and the castle’s head cook, and Kenjirou, beaming beside his own father, both with shining yellow hair slicked down and the one red streak catching the light. He feels surrounded, buoyed up, carried on a wave of nods and smiles and friendly affection, but his gaze keeps coming back to Victor’s face.

Victor watches him, all that long, slow procession forward. He’s breathing hard, smoky puffs appearing between his parted lips, and his eyes are open wide, bluer than the sky above, where the clouds have receded. He looks disbelieving, as though he’s in a dream, and as Yuuri reaches Victor’s side he feels the same, his ears ringing and his own breath coming out as plumes of steam in the cold air.

“Yuuri,” Victor murmurs, and reaches to take his hand. “You look…” He breaks off, swallowing hard, his gaze traveling over Yuuri’s body, and he reaches out to draw one finger along the silver thread on his doublet, tracing the feathers embroidered there.

Yuuri feels the flush rising in his cheeks, warm in the chill. “You named me winter swan. I wanted to live up to it.”

“You did,” Victor says, and a small smile crosses his face. “Did you summon the winter weather to match?”

Yuuri smiles, squeezing his hand, and turns to face the tree. “I’ll never tell.”

Maestra Minako is before them now, black-clad as always but her face beaming above her somber garb. She looks between them, pleased, and begins the ancient ritual.

They speak their vows before their heart tree, as the Starks have done for thousands of years. Victor stumbles once over the archaic phrases, and Yuuri holds his hand tightly through it. The words feel heavy in his mouth, anchoring him to this moment, ancient and solid like they're a part of him already, his history and his future. Here, in the Winterfell godswood, where so many Starks have made their vows of marriage and knighthood, he's made both of his as well. Yuuri thinks of the rows of statues in the family crypt, the generations of Starks that he's heir to, though he won't be laid to rest there. After today he’ll belong to the south, and to Victor, his fate changed forever.

But he’ll always belong to the north, too, he thinks. To his family, and to the cold, and the plain unflinching ways of his people. He’ll carry that with him, the love and the strength, as part of his wedding portion.

Maestra Minako is speaking the last words of the ritual, and Yuuri can feel Victor gripping his hand more tightly, through his own soft fur-lined glove. Victor wears traveling gauntlets, the thick black leather water-stained with many journeys, and Yuuri longs for his touch, to be alone together with nothing between them. Soon, he thinks.

Now they turn to one another, as a hunting horn blasts behind them and the crowd breaks into happy noise. Yuuri smiles crookedly, blinking in the cool sunlight, but Victor’s smile is blinding in its joy, and it feels like his heart stops for a moment. Victor finally takes off one glove, dropping it to the snowy ground, and lifts Yuuri’s chin with his fingertips, delicate.

Later, Yuuri will blush to recall how quickly he reached for Victor’s face, leaning in to snatch a passionate kiss with such force that Victor made a surprised noise against his mouth, soon lost in the laughing cheers behind them and the sweetness of Victor kissing him back.

“To the banquet hall!” Yuuri hears his mother say, and they’re swept along in the crowd.

He can’t help thinking of the last feast they attended, in the hundred-hearth gallery of Harrenhal. That night was full of intimidating splendor and the worrisome unease of how the tourney had ended, earlier in the day, but today there’s only the same simmering awareness of each other, leaning back with Victor’s arm over his shoulders. Now Victor is more open with his caresses, leaning in to press a kiss to Yuuri’s cheek or stroke his knee. Yuuri feels freer as well, looking back to laugh with Victor instead of shyly ducking his head, yet for all the times they’ve been intimate, the promise of tonight seems as great as it was back then, a frontier they’ll cross together.

The candlelight keeps catching the ring on Yuuri’s finger, hammered gold with the Stark sigil etched inside, matching the one on Victor’s hand. They’re nowhere near fine as the jewelry that must be in the Red Keep’s treasuries, but it felt important, somehow, to have something from his family to bind them. He tried to explain it to his mother, when she brought the casket with the rings from her own personal jewel box.

“I don’t want to forget where I came from,” Yuuri told her, turning away from the window, where he’d been watching Victor play with Makkachin and Yuuko’s girls in the yard below. “Even if I haven’t been here much since I was a child,” he added, guiltily.

“You’re grown,” his mother returned, smiling. “What should you do at home? I’m only happy you’ve found your place in the world.”

“Mm,” Yuuri said, plucking one of the rings from the dark blue velvet and twisting it between his fingers. “A place, at least. I hope it’ll be mine, someday.”

His mother had smiled, lifting a hand to touch his face. “You make a home wherever you go, Yuuri. Love does that. And he loves you very much in return.”

Yuuri looked at her, closing his hand over the golden ring. “It’s still strange to me.”

“Love reflects itself,” his mother said, still smiling, and then pinched his cheek. “And besides, who wouldn’t love my son? With a face like that.”

She moved away then, taking the jewel casket from Yuuri’s hands to inspect the rings, and Yuuri swallowed hard, looking out the window again. Victor was lying on the flagstones, fending off combined attacks from Makkachin and the girls, and all of them were laughing. It was hard to think that this was the king of Westeros, playing with children and a hound like that, and hard to imagine the icy-smiling, precise and composed Prince Victor doing it either. He’s changed so much, or else there was so much Yuuri never knew.

The ring looks well on Victor’s hand now, luxurious without being ostentatious. A king’s ornament. Its twin looks well on Yuuri’s own hand too, he has to admit, though it’s strange to see it there. Perhaps there’s much he never knew about himself, either.

“A toast!” someone cries from the tables below, and there’s the sound of clinking glasses. “A kiss!”

Victor turns to him, with a smile. “We must give them what they want,” he says, and leans in.

Yuuri kisses him back, feeling the fiery blush on his cheeks as the watching crowd cheers for them. When Victor finally leans back a little the blush doesn't fade, but Yuuri feels it as a different kind of heat now, low and wanting. Victor smiles at him, about to turn away, but Yuuri puts his fingers under Victor’s chin and pulls him in for another kiss, quick and fierce. _This one is for me_ , he thinks, and smiles at the surprise on Victor’s face when they part.

The day passes by in a whirling daze of songs and laughter, food and kisses, well wishes from everyone at Winterfell. Yuuko comes up to the high table, shyly at first, but then the girls swarm past her to climb on Victor’s knees and taste his dinner and the moment is broken, Yuuri laughing with her. He feels a pang of guilt at the fact he hasn't visited alone with her since arriving with Victor a month ago, but when she takes the empty seat next to him and leans her head on her hand, smiling fondly and cheeks flushed, everything feels just as it used to when they were small.

“Congratulations,” she says. “You look happy.”

“So do you,” Yuuri replies. “You're glowing. I didn't think my wedding would bring you _this_ much joy.”

She flushes more. “Takeshi and I are expecting another child, later this year.”

“Ah,” Yuuri says. “Congratulations.”

There's a hollow moment, as all the wrangling over the line of royal succession springs into his mind, and Victor’s anguished face when he thinks of his father or the rulers to come after him. Then Yuuri blinks, remembering himself. He smiles more warmly, leaning in to put his hand on Yuuko’s shoulder.

“Truly,” he says. “Congratulations. I know you always wanted a large family.”

“Not triplets again, I hope,” she says.

“Just twins this time, perhaps,” Yuuri says, and they grin together.

They talk a little of the ceremony and the feast, and about his plans for the coming days, a brief stay at Winterfell before returning south for the coronation. Yuuko sighs, looking up at him.

“Then you’ll truly be gone, won’t you,” she says. “For good, this time.”

“Winterfell will always be my home,” Yuuri says. “I hope to return…”

“More often than before?” She shakes her head. “No. You always were destined for great things, Yuuri. You belong to the wider world.”

He hears an echo of Maestra Minako’s words, months ago, on their ride north. _We always knew you had more in you._ “It’s strange,” Yuuri says, slowly. “Everyone seems to have been so certain that my path in life would be like this, almost greater than I dared to dream.”

Yuuko smiles at him, reaching for his hand. “But you did dare, didn’t you, Yuuri?”

The day passes into evening, moving from feasting to entertainment to feasting again. Various subtleties are brought out between courses; enormous shortbread cakes in the shapes of ships and castles, meat pies decorated with fruits in aspic, and before the final supper course, a white swan in all its snowy plumage, stuffed with roasted songbirds and surrounded by a coiling dragon made of marzipan, tinted red and saffron gold.

Yuuri turns to glance at Victor when these last appear, raising an eyebrow. “Your suggestion, I suppose?”

Victor turns to him, eyes wide. “Your mother employs an excellent set of cooks.”

Neither of them have any appetite left after the endless feasting, toying with the plate of sweetmeats someone brought them and sharing a cup of wine. Yuuri feels full of everything — food, drink, love, life. This doesn’t feel like that evening in Harrenhal any longe. That night was full of anxious, racing desire, but this is content and steady, a familiar song winding its way to a sweet and inevitable conclusion, the heat growing between them stronger and more lasting.

Still, as the sky gets darker outside the windows of the hall, he can’t help but notice that the guests are glancing up at them more often, sly and smiling. Yuuri’s throat goes tight, realizing what they must be thinking of. Soon enough he and Victor will take their leave of the banquet, making their first journey to the bedchamber as a wedded couple, and in Westeros there are customs that go along with that.

Yuuri glances over at Victor, pressing his lips together and clearing his throat. “Ah, Victor,” he says, quietly, leaning in. “You arranged all the details of the feast with my mother, I assume?”

Victor just nods at him, his eyes sparkling. “Yes. Everything’s been to your liking? Enough roast pork?”

“Yes,” Yuuri says, distracted. “But I wondered…you’re the king. Were you expecting the guests to perform the bedding ritual?”

The words hang in the air, until he sees comprehension flash over Victor’s face. He expects Victor to tease him again, but instead Victor just puts an arm over his shoulders, pulling him close with a serious expression. “Of course not,” Victor says, tipping his head against Yuuri’s. “I wouldn’t put you through that. I wouldn’t like it myself. No one will follow us upstairs.”

Yuuri shuts his eyes, allowing himself a sigh. He thinks of the other weddings he’s attended, the guests chasing the new couple up to their nuptial chambers at the end of the night with crude jokes and bawdy laughter, ripping away their clothing and pushing them into bed together. Or so he hears; he’s never followed the crowd once they left the banquet hall. He hadn’t really thought they’d have to endure such a scene, but it’s good to know that Victor was thinking of him, as always.

Instead they leave quietly, as they did months ago. They’re seen, of course, and Yuuri keeps his eyes lowered while they cross the hall, his hand held in Victor’s. Some things don’t change. But no one stops them, and Ser Blount’s knowing smirk is only the ghost of a memory as they ascend the stairs to his room.

Victor must be thinking of that night too, because he stops outside Yuuri’s door. He reaches to cup Yuuri’s face in his hand, looking at him seriously, tenderly. 

“I should probably tell you,” Victor says, and Yuuri’s heart stops for a moment, wondering what Victor might be about to say, what new obstacle is before them. Victor smiles though, wicked. “I’m completely in love with you.”

Yuuri leans up into a fierce kiss, the way he did in the godswood this morning after the ceremony, and turns to push Victor back against the door. “You’re terrible,” he mutters, against Victor’s mouth.

Victor laughs, reaching down to open the door behind himself. “Well,” he says. “You married me.”

*****

There’s a fire burning in the hearth, keeping the bed chamber warm. There must be hot bricks at the foot of the bed too, heating the linen sheets. Yuuri doesn’t notice any of it, in comparison with the surging passion blazing through him as he backs Victor across the room, still kissing him hard. Victor grasps one of the sturdy square bedposts, lowering himself down to sit on the bed, and Yuuri moves between his legs, leaning in. He lifts his hands to grasp Victor’s head, and Victor reaches down for the laces of Yuuri’s doublet, cursing as he struggles with them.

“Why are you wearing so much clothing,” Victor mutters, unknotting a ribbon he's pulled too tight.

“I could say the same to you,” Yuuri says, with a brief laugh. “Should I summon a servant?”

Victor curses again and jerks Yuuri’s doublet loose, roughly, before pulling Yuuri onto the bed with him.

They undress each other as quickly as they can, laces tangling, fine attire stripped off in haste and thrown to the floor. Yuuri tears the Myrish lace collar of Victor’s linen shirt by mistake, too eager, but when he gasps out an apology Victor just catches the offending hand and kisses it, each knuckle and fingertip, closing over a final kiss on Yuuri’s palm. 

Yuuri looks up at him, eyes wide, struck anew by where they are and what they’re doing. Who they are to each other, now. “Victor,” he whispers, and moves forward to kiss him hungrily, pressing him back against the bed.

For all the nights they’ve spent together, there’s a different aura to this one; raw-edged and fervent, desire flaring hotly between them. Victor’s body beneath his feels new once more, and Victor’s wanting hands move roughly over Yuuri’s back and shoulders, drawing Yuuri down to him. Their kisses are urgent, breathless, and when Yuuri rocks his hips against Victor’s belly, Victor moans with an abandon Yuuri hasn’t heard in a long time, sounding overwhelmed. 

Yuuri keeps doing it. Victor reaches up to bury his hand in Yuuri’s hair and pulls him into a hard kiss, open-mouthed and fierce. His other hand goes to the small of Yuuri’s back, holding him there as they rock together, and finally with a gasp Victor spreads his legs, letting Yuuri slip into the cradle of his hips. 

“Victor,” Yuuri murmurs, his face going hotter. Victor’s still breathing hard, hands restless over his body, but the motion of his body is unmistakable. Yuuri swallows. “Do you — is this what you want?”

Victor just kisses him, softer, and nods as he winds his arm around Yuuri’s neck. “Yes,” he whispers, husky. “I want you, Yuuri.”

Yuuri rests his forehead against Victor’s, eyes dropping closed. He takes a few deep breaths, getting hold of himself, because there's still a small part that’s stunned every time by Victor’s desire for him. 

He wants this as much as Victor does, though, and he presses a kiss to Victor’s lips. “I'm yours, then,” he says, simply.

There's a candle burning by the bedside when he reaches over to the dresser, pulling open the top drawer. This feels right, making love once more in a liminal glow, with this circle of warm light around them. As Yuuri lies back down Victor’s gaze is on him, eyelids lowered and his face expectant but peaceful. 

It feels like their very first time again, Victor waiting so patiently for him, and Yuuri can’t resist taking what he can have, now. He gets up on one elbow, cupping Victor’s face as he kisses him again, soft and sweet and thorough. “Thank you,” he says. “For trusting me.”

Victor runs his hand up Yuuri’s bare back, wrapping around the back of his neck and holding him close. “More than myself,” he says, low. “More than anything.”

And it's so much, almost too much, the enormity of what Victor’s given him. Yuuri is both Victor’s fetters and Victor’s wings, as Victor learns to take flight in this new life they share. He can't see what's ahead of them, all the myriad ways their lives could unfold, and it’s a daunting adventure, the stakes so high now that they've bound themselves together with the fate of the kingdom in their hands. But for tonight, this is theirs alone —the quiet intimacy of their bed, the beating-heart closeness of their bodies — and Yuuri shudders and breathes and shuts out the weight of the world. There's only them, here, now.

He puts a hand on Victor’s chest, smoothing down his body. Victor groans against Yuuri’s mouth and draws his knees up, spreading his legs, kissing Yuuri like he's drawing air from him. Yuuri reaches further down to stroke Victor with steady pulls of his hand, gentling and rousing him at the same time, before moving even lower.

Giving this to Victor feels like marrying him all over again. No — it’s as if their wedding hasn’t truly begun until this moment, open before each other. The morning’s snow, the friendly crowd beneath the trees, Maestra Minako’s solemn words and the raucous warmth of the leisurely banquet; none of that seems as real as his hands on Victor’s restless, longing body, or the heated flush of Victor’s chest beneath his cheek, where Yuuri lays his head. Victor’s strong arm tight around him, or the aching need in Victor’s moans, _Yuuri, Yuuri_.

After a while Yuuri turns his head, kissing over Victor’s heart, and Victor pushes his hand roughly into Yuuri’s hair, tugging him up. “Now,” Victor says, hoarse and pleading. “Please, I need you.”

It feels like home, looking down at Victor from above. Tonight Victor’s eyes aren’t soft and fond, though, watching Yuuri take his pleasure and waiting for his own. Instead Victor’s mouth falls open as he breathes hard, shoulders hitching up, and Yuuri has the sudden sense that he’s seeing Victor more truly than he has in a long time, or perhaps ever. Their first night together, Victor was lost in new ecstasy, but now he seems almost overcome, his hands clumsy on Yuuri’s face as they move to fit themselves together. It’s the newness again, Yuuri thinks, and then — _What happens when I stop surprising you?_

When they met, Victor was escaping his dull, narrow life as much as anything, Yuuri knows now. Constrained by his own superiority, but withdrawn, too; averting his eyes from the painful, the inevitable. Just as Yuuri’s taken slow steps to his own awakening, Victor has done the same, covering an even greater stretch as he assumes his father’s place. But within him is still the idle prince, seeking a moment’s relief from the stagnant monotony of his life. 

And Yuuri wants to keep him enthralled for a lifetime.

“Look at me, Victor,” he whispers. “Don’t look away.”

Victor lets out a shuddering sigh, his body going loose and pliant beneath Yuuri, his palms damp against Yuuri’s face. Yuuri draws a breath, arms tensing as he presses in slowly, rocking his hips to ease himself inside that slick velvet heat. Victor gasps as Yuuri opens him up, moving deeper, but he doesn’t close his eyes, still clear and bright as water.

“Oh,” Victor breathes. He draws his legs up more, knees against Yuuri’s sides. “Oh, that’s — it’s so much, Yuuri.”

“Too much?” Yuuri whispers, arching up to kiss Victor’s throat. He snaps his hips in, more sharply this time.

“Almost,” Victor gasps, and then, “don’t stop.”

Yuuri smiles, against Victor’s neck. “Good.”

They make it work, together. Yuuri feels the strength of Victor’s body, beneath and around him, the way Victor gives in without giving anything up. He takes what Victor offers, buoyed up by him, and in return he’ll carry Victor through whatever’s to come. 

Some of that desperate, gasping urgency returns when he’s finally close enough to kiss Victor again, their hips pressed firmly together at last. Victor groans into Yuuri’s mouth, caressing his hair and shoulders wildly, and reaches down to spread his hand against Yuuri’s low back, covetous. Yuuri feels surrounded and held, suffused with heat, and he kisses back just as passionately, his heart pounding hard. 

Victor pushes down; a quick, slight movement, the flat of his hand sliding on Yuuri’s back. His legs tighten against Yuuri’s sides, and then he pulls back a little, panting. Their lips brush as he breathes, _Yuuri, please_.

Yuuri groans and gets up, bracing his forearms against the bed. He lets his head hang down, swallowing hard as he pulls back out, dragging and slow. He pauses, just a moment, and then pushes back inside, steady and not stopping

He feels the sound Victor makes almost as much as he hears it. A soft cry, breaking partway through as Victor struggles for breath. Yuuri pulls out and does it again, and again, and Victor _wails_ , his body tensing everywhere. Knees pressed into Yuuri’s ribs, arm tight around Yuuri’s shoulders, and the sweet hot clutch of him inside, so good that Yuuri lets out a groan through clenched teeth on each stroke, moving smoothly now. 

“Yuuri,” Victor sobs out, turning his head away, eyes squeezed shut. “Gods — how do you — _oh_.”

“Look at me,” Yuuri breathes out, thrusting into him again, harder.

Victor turns back to him, opening his eyes with an effort. “Yuuri,” he says, thickly, one hand stroking Yuuri’s cheek. He doesn’t say anything more, but he doesn’t look away. As Yuuri picks up the pace, losing himself more in this, Victor’s gaze grows calmer, a small smile on his parted lips. 

“You’re beautiful,” he says, breathless. “You’re wonderful, Yuuri, and — you’re mine.”

“Yes,” Yuuri gasps. The heat that’s been inside him all day feels like it’s caught alight, burning through his chest and limbs, dancing over his skin. He’s thrusting hard now into the welcoming warmth of Victor’s body, and Victor smiles up at him, urging him on. His _husband_.

“That’s good,” Victor murmurs, sounding pleased now. He tilts his head back to look at Yuuri, eyes bright. “Take me, Yuuri.”

Yuuri gasps again, shivers running through him. “Victor. If you talk like that — I'm not going to last much longer.”

At his words Victor’s smile grows wide, spreading across his face. He moves both hands to cradle Yuuri’s face, stroking it. “Take me,” he says again. “Take anything you want. All I want is you.”

Yuuri curls his fingers in the sheets, groaning as he leans into Victor’s hands, his face hot against Victor’s palms. He feels like he’s losing control, their bodies merging into one as he moves, each stroke shocking in its sweetness. It’s so _good_. He could finish like this so easily, he knows that, but that’s not how he wants tonight to go.

He pushes in once more, as deep as he can, and then stops, panting for air. Victor’s still smiling up at him, and Yuuri leans down to kiss him again, shifting his weight to one elbow. He reaches up to run his hand through Victor’s silky hair, kissing his lips, and then back down to wrap around Victor’s length, stroking him quick and tight.

Victor moans into the kiss, Yuuri’s lower lip caught between both of his. Yuuri lifts his head slightly, pulling free, and then presses another kiss to Victor’s mouth. “This is what I want,” he whispers.

They kiss as he draws Victor off, his arm working between their bodies. It makes a slick, secret sound, but all Yuuri hears are Victor’s sighs against his mouth, growing louder. Victor shifts restlessly beneath him, rocking his hips up and tugging Yuuri’s hair, and finally he breaks away from their kiss, breathing hard. “Oh,” he gasps, his fingers digging into Yuuri’s shoulder.

He’s so tense all over, tight around Yuuri, his chest heaving as he breathes, and his eyes are nearly closed, beautiful lashes sweeping his flushed cheeks. Yuuri just stares at him, striving to bring him closer. He’s taken Victor over the edge so many times by now, with his body and hands and mouth, but this feels like something more, something Victor is trusting him with. Everything is different tonight.

“That’s it,” Yuuri whispers, panting. “You're so close. I want to see you, Victor. _Please._ ”

Victor lets out a broken moan, soft and desperate, as strong shudders finally go through him. Yuuri can feel it through Victor’s whole body and deep inside, too, strong enough to take him along as Victor cries out against his shoulder. He keeps himself in check, seeing this through for Victor, but at last he can’t hold out any longer. 

“Oh, gods,” Yuuri groans. He rocks his hips again, pushing into that tight heat until he spends inside Victor, overwhelmed by the piercing sweet pleasure of it.

Now Victor collapses back against the bed, sprawling out as he gasps for breath, and Yuuri buries his face in the curve of Victor’s neck, breathing in time with him. It feels as if they share everything; the air in their lungs, the quick-pulsing blood in their bodies, a double heartbeat drawn from the same source. Yuuri kisses Victor’s throat, murmuring against it, and Victor’s hands are tight on his back and head, clutching Yuuri to him.

“Mine,” Victor sighs, low. Yuuri nods, feeling the sharp tears come into his eyes. His throat is tight, and he doesn’t trust himself to speak, just kisses the hollow of Victor’s throat. 

At last he lifts his head, knowing Victor will see his wet eyes. Victor’s are just the same, full of shining tears. Yuuri blinks, sniffling, and lets his own run down his face. Victor reaches up to wipe a tear away with his thumb, his expression solemn and wondering.

“My king,” Yuuri says, hoarsely.

Victor smiles, clearly remembering, and this time he doesn’t argue. “My prince.”

“Not yet,” Yuuri says, in token protest, though it’ll be true soon enough. Another titanic upheaval in his life, another way Victor keeps drawing him up to strange new heights.

Victor strokes his cheek again, tracing the wetness there, still smiling. “Every time I think I can’t be happier, I remember all that we have ahead of us. Everything I’ll get to share with you.”

“I suppose the weight of a crown _is_ tempered by living in a palace,” Yuuri says, wry.

Victor shakes his head. “Even if I really were just a blacksmith, I’d be happy sharing my hovel with you. And — what did you say — my dazzling sword?”

Now Yuuri’s the one to smile. He leans in, closer, his mouth near Victor’s. “Our wedding night’s only just begun, you know,” he whispers. “You and your sword have plenty more time to dazzle me.”

Victor laughs, wrapping his arms around Yuuri to pull him in tight. “By the Seven,” he says, husky. “That I should have lived to hear Yuuri Stark making bawdy jokes on our wedding night.”

He leans up, kissing Yuuri sweetly. Yuuri gives into it, and to the spell of the night, a charm against the days ahead. A new role, a new life, with so many obstacles and so much to learn, but he has _this_. Victor in his arms and in his heart, no longer the cool and distant idol on the tourney field or in the royal box, but a living, loving man. Tonight isn’t the end of the road, only the start of a long and winding journey to destinations unknown; learning from each other, growing together. Yuuri feels, at last, like he’s ready for the challenge.

*****

Victor wakes in Yuuri’s arms, as always. 

Some mornings, awareness steals slowly upon him, as though he’s left this world entirely for the kingdom of dreams. He breathes hard, fighting old battles, or wanders through shadowy stone halls in search of something lost. The forest closes in on him, or the river, or the flames. Even in his dreams, Victor’s thoughts always return to the fire.

Other mornings, like today, he opens his eyes in full possession of his senses, knowing exactly where he is and who he’s with, and the peace that floods him then is warm and sweet. Not the blaze of dragonfire, but the comforting heat of the pool in the godswood, soothing water beneath the protective limbs of the grey sentinel trees. Yuuri is like those trees, or this castle, austere grey stone warmed by the hidden waters within.

Victor arches deeper into that warmth now, one of Yuuri’s arms wrapped tight around his chest, knees fitted behind his. He doesn’t like cold weather but it’s almost worth it to sleep in a bed like this, tucked together on luxuriant feathers beneath the piles of woolen blankets and the fur coverlet on top. Victor’s an early riser, and yet it’s always a struggle to leave this safe and comfortable haven of theirs.

He tilts his head up to look out the window. Instead of yesterday’s iron-grey sky, shaking down thick snowflakes, he’s met with a square of blue, without a wisp of cloud in sight. It seems like a good portent, beginning the first day of their marriage with the sun on their shoulders. Victor smiles, reaching down to cover Yuuri’s hand with his own.

The slight touch wakes Yuuri, and he stirs behind Victor, holding him tighter for a moment. Victor feels Yuuri yawn against the back of his neck, and then burrow in, nose pressed to his bare shoulder, smiling before kissing it. 

“Good morning,” Victor says.

“Mm,” Yuuri says. “After a good night.” He kisses Victor again, then pauses, and Victor feels the hesitant stillness that goes through him. “It was good, wasn’t it?”

Victor draws in a breath through his nose, and then turns in Yuuri’s arms, rolling onto his back. He reaches up to put a hand on Yuuri’s face, looking at him seriously, radiating as much fondness as he can. “Yuuri,” he murmurs. “There aren’t words for how good it was.”

It was like walking through fire, that first time. The aching heat in his body, his burning need for Yuuri, the urgent passion that drove them both on. He’d thought he knew, before, what making love with Yuuri was like, but he’d never seen Yuuri like that; the strength in his eyes, the desire and surety in his hands. He’d thought he knew what _Yuuri_ was like, and he’d known nothing.

And then they did it again, and again. 

Victor on his knees, gasping into the pillows. Yuuri’s grasp on his hips, steady and relentless as he moved inside, and his gentle kisses over Victor’s back. The sweet agony of climaxing that way, untouched, Victor’s voice breaking as he cried out in shocked ecstasy. The answering desperation in Yuuri’s own breathless moans.

And finally, like this. Curled together, nearly claimed by sleep but still hungry for each other; hands traveling over smooth damp skin, craning back for another kiss as the pleasure rolled through them in quiet waves. The last thing Victor knew before the darkness closed in was Yuuri’s palm resting over his heart, and Yuuri whispering love in his ear.

Victor does the same to him now, letting his hand slip down to cover Yuuri’s heart. He presses in, looking up at Yuuri meaningfully, and he sees Yuuri’s throat move as he swallows, nodding once. The slight uncertain frown leaves his dark eyes, and then Yuuri closes them, leaning down to kiss Victor’s forehead.

“I’m glad,” Yuuri whispers, lips soft against Victor’s skin.

Victor reaches back up to curl his hand around the back of Yuuri’s neck, pulling him into a real kiss. “Ahh,” he sighs, after. “I will say, I feel worse than the morning after you bested me at Harrenhal. I might have to call in a servant, if any of your mother’s staff knows how to give a proper massage.”

Yuuri brushes hair from Victor’s forehead, a small tender smile on his face as he strokes Victor’s forehead. “The hot springs are better for that,” he says. “You’ve soaked in them often enough before.”

“Of course,” Victor says, shaking his head. “Bathing before breakfast sounds like an excellent idea, if the snow has melted.”

Yuuri raises himself up to a sitting position. The linen sheets fall away from his bare shoulders as he leans forward to look out the window, and Victor rests a hand on Yuuri’s chest again, just feeling the smooth warm strength of his body. “I think it has. And the sun is out, at least.”

“A bath it is, then,” Victor says.

He watches as Yuuri gets out of bed, crawling over Victor’s legs to go towards the wardrobe on that side of the room. Yuuri stands and stretches, his back turned to Victor and his arms raised over his head, and Victor can only smile, looking his fill. Yuuri’s never exactly been shy about his body, but there’s a new confidence in him, a loose-limbed freedom that’s so different from the stiff, withdrawn young man Victor met here last year. He isn’t the same person Victor met the first time either, all caution thrown to the wind with intoxication and, Victor knows now, a recklessness born of losing what Yuuri thought was his last tourney. 

Yuuri’s simply himself, comfortable in his skin, growing into every new challenge that’s been set before him. All his life, Victor’s felt the weight of expectations and a royal name, but Yuuri’s had to summon the courage to fight for everything he has, and Victor can only marvel at how far he’s come.

Now Yuuri turns, brushing his fingertips briefly over the box that always sits at Victor’s bedside, unopened but still present in the back of his mind, always. “Victor,” Yuuri says, his voice a little lower, more serious now. “I, er, opened this yesterday. I didn’t take them out,” he adds, quickly. “I just wanted to look at them.”

“Ah,” Victor says. He rolls onto his side, propping his head on his hand. “How did they look?”

“Beautiful,” Yuuri says, softly. “I see why your family has treasured them.”

Victor smiles, bitterly. “The Targaryens would have treasured them if they’d been ugly lumps of rock,” he says. “But yes, we love beautiful things, even terrible ones.”

Something strange flashes in Yuuri’s eyes, but he only nods. “I — touched one. The black egg. I didn’t take it out.”

“That’s all right,” Victor says, blinking. “How did it feel?”

He’s honestly curious. Once, as a child, he picked up a dragon egg, cradling the red one in his hands, and what his father did when he found out has never left Victor’s memory. Since his father died, Victor’s felt an irrational unwillingness to touch them again, even though they’re his now. He can still recall the smooth curve of the egg in his palms, almost too big for him to hold, heavy with the weight of centuries of stone.

Yuuri licks his lips, frowning. “Hot,” he says, at last. 

His glance drops to the box once more, before he turns around to go to the wardrobe. Victor’s gaze follows his, and he stares at the carvings on the sides of the box as Yuuri dresses, then tosses loose trousers and a shirt onto the end of the bed. 

“Coming?” Yuuri asks.

Victor shakes his head, breaking his concentration. He can’t say what he was even thinking about, only the same strange, flickering thoughts that have been at the corners of his mind since he was small, like flames against a dark sky. He looks up at Yuuri.

“I’ll follow you down,” he says. 

Yuuri frowns at him but nods, pressing his lips together. “All right,” he says. “I’ll see you soon.”

After the door shuts behind him Victor sighs, with a long, heavy exhale. He’s so weary of these old thoughts, the vestiges of his childhood he’d thought he left behind. The history of his family, glorious and terrible, and all the promise of his future. His father wanted great things for him, Victor knows. Those ambitions were twined together with the madness that overtook him later in life, but Victor still can’t rid himself entirely of the sense of destiny he was raised with, noble and magnificent. The fire at his birth, and the fire that obsessed his father, all traced back to this same source.

Victor gets out of bed, the floor cold beneath his bare feet, and stands before the box, fingering the latch before he lifts it open. The eggs are vivid splashes of color before his eyes, each one a round world in itself, full of power and potential. He can almost hear them calling to him.

 _They’re nothing but stone_ , Victor thinks, shaking his head. _I should drop them into the sea and be finished with them, and my father, and all this cursed heritage he left me._

His hand hovers over the crimson egg, the one he held as a child. It looks no smaller than it did then, and he lets his hand descend on it, cupping the wide, curved crown.

Yuuri was right. The egg is warm against his palm, more so than his own skin. Victor rubs it in circles, raising his eyes to stare out the window, feeling entranced by the smooth heat beneath his hand. He can’t see the grounds of the castle, only the grey sentinel trees of the godswood and the blue skies above.

After a while, Victor closes the box.

The trance is still upon him as he slips through the courtyard, a heavy cloth-wrapped parcel under his arm. The castle folk are about, and he hears the ringing of hammer against metal somewhere close by, perhaps the armorer knocking dents out of breastplates or sharpening a sword. Victor leaves all of them behind, heading in the direction of the wood.

It’s unnaturally quiet here, the usual morning birdsong dampened somehow. Small unmelted drifts of snow still lie beneath the trees, their icy whiteness darkened now with grit and fallen leaves. The ground under Victor’s feet is quiet too, the thick, packed earth muffling the sound of his steps. He has the strange sudden feeling of being back in the tunnels below King’s Landing with Yuuri again, in that silent winding darkness, counting steps in reverse and moving towards the castle, both familiar and unknown.

Except when he comes out into the clearing there’s only Yuuri, half-submerged in the waters beneath the heart tree. He’s resting with his eyes closed, arms spread along the stone lip of the pool, his dark hair already wet and slicked back from his brow. Victor stops, just looking at the picture he makes, his skin pale against the setting of brown and grey, the gnarled branches above clustered with small green leaves, tender and new. Scraps of sky show between them, a cool solid blue, and he can hear the birds here, now.

He doesn’t think he makes a sound, but Yuuri opens his eyes, blinking for a moment in the sun before he smiles, tremulous and true.

Victor comes to the edge of the pool and begins to strip off, dropping his clothes on the old weathered stone. He sets down what he’s been carrying, and Yuuri glances at it before looking up again.

“What’s that?” he asks.

Victor doesn’t answer, sitting down to plunge his feet into the water. It’s pleasantly hot, enough to make him shiver in the chill morning air, when he didn’t feel the cold before. He rests a hand on top of the box, drawing it closer, and then looks at Yuuri, hesitating as he lifts the box from its wrappings and sets it on his lap.

“I don’t know why,” Victor says, low. “After talking about them just now — I wanted them near to me, somehow.”

Yuuri looks at him a moment longer, than sits up, pushing off from the wall of the pool and coming across the water to him. He raises one hand, dripping, and touches the clasp of the lock. “Can I?”

Victor nods, and Yuuri lifts the lid. The sunlight catches the metallic swirls, and the eggshells seem even brighter out here, concentrated orbs of rich color. Yuuri studies each one in turn, then raises his head. 

“You know,” he says. “There are legends about this pool.”

“Christophe Lannister told me as much, when I met him at Harrenhal,” Victor says, slowly. “He said it was no wonder I was looking well, if I’d been bathing in the healing springs at Winterfell.”

“Mm,” Yuuri says. He looks down again, bringing his hand closer to the black egg, his fingers outstretched but not quite touching it. “My mother says the legend was born because Starks are so stalwart in battle, or at least we recover so well. I think probably everyone would, with hot baths after.”

“Yes,” Victor says.

“This pool is very old,” Yuuri says, almost a murmur. “It was here long before the castle. Long before the godswood was named such. It and the heart tree.”

He reaches out, curving his hand around the black egg, resting his palm against it. Victor looks down at the top of Yuuri’s head, where his damp hair is just as dark and shining as the dragon’s egg. 

“Yuuri,” he says, and then nothing more. 

Yuuri lifts his other hand out of the water. Drops fall on the purple velvet as he cradles the black egg, both hands now, and takes it from the box. He holds it a moment, looking down, and then he sinks below the surface of the pool, carrying the egg with him. 

Victor already has the emerald egg in his hands when Yuuri rises again, water streaming over his face and down his shoulders, shaking back his hair. He offers the egg to Yuuri, who takes it and ducks below the water again. Victor puts the box back on the ground and lifts the last egg out of it, radiating heat like an ember in his cupped palms. Yuuri surfaces once more, and Victor slides into the water, the steaming warmth enfolding his whole body as he submerges himself.

It’s clearer down here than he expected. He sets the crimson egg next to the others, forming a bright triangle against the tiny white gravel that lines the bottom of the spring. Victor blinks, once, and then pushes back up, rising into the cool morning air.

Yuuri is waiting for him. Their eyes meet, solemn and serious for just a moment, and then a smile seems to blossom between them, the tension breaking. Victor reaches for Yuuri, pulling him close, and they stand there in the warm water with their foreheads leaning together, laughing softly. 

“I’m sorry,” Yuuri says, with another laugh. “We’ve probably ruined your dragon eggs. A priceless family heirloom, tossed into a warm bath like so many dishes.”

“I’m sure they needed it,” Victor says. “They’re ancient, and no one ever dusts them. And besides, the treasure room is full of — ”

He stops. Near his foot, on the bottom of the pool, he feels a swirling eddy of water, like something brushed by him.

Victor swallows hard, and then takes a step away from Yuuri. His hands slide from Yuuri’s shoulders, down to clasp his hands, and Victor looks into the clear depths of the spring.

The black egg is hatching. 

The beautiful ebony shell is cracked, split in two, and the movement is undeniable. It rocks back and forth, the crack widening, something dark and writhing pushing out from within. As Victor watches, the other two eggs begin to crack as well, deep silver fissures spreading across their shells.

“ _Victor_ ,” Yuuri gasps, and Victor squeezes his hands tighter.

It doesn’t take long. Bubbles rise to the surface, and then their vision is obscured by a tangle of frantic motion, clawed limbs and flickering tails moving upwards. Victor holds his breath as he feels the eddies of water brushing by him, until finally the dragons surface.

Three small heads twist this way and that, their jewel-bright eyes taking in the morning light. Three impossible creatures, moments after their impossible birth, here in this impossible place. In Yuuri’s spring, in Yuuri’s north. Yuuri’s home.

Victor looks up, meeting Yuuri’s gaze once more. The shifting reflections of the water dance over his face, and he’s breathing hard through his open mouth, amber eyes wide. Victor thinks again of the battles Yuuri’s faced and his quiet bravery, all that Yuuri’s done and faced for Victor and for himself. Yuuri holds his hands, still, their arms enfolding this last inheritance.

“Victor,” Yuuri says again, calm and quiet.

Victor looks back down. He squeezes Yuuri’s hands one last time, and then he lets go, bringing his arms together in a circle at the surface of the water.

The dragons turn, regarding him. He takes in a breath, reaching for the High Valyrian he was taught as a child, the language of the royal histories and songs that fired his ambitions as a youth to take up his sword and carry on the glory of his family’s name. He hasn’t spoken it in years, and he’s no longer the boy he was, shaped now by fire and steel and, finally, love, but a few words still remain.

“ _Zaldrizes_ ,” Victor says, breathing out the word. “My dragons. Come to me.”

**Author's Note:**

> Tumblr: [sophia-helix](http://sophia-helix.tumblr.com)


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